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In Merry Mood 



BY 

NIXON WATERMAN 

A BOOK OF VERSES 

" A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou 

Beside me singing in the Wilderness — 
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow ! " 

IN MERRY MOOD 

A Book of Cheerful Rhymes 

Each I vol., i2mo, $i.2j 



In Merry Mood 

A Book of Cheerful Rhymes 

By 

Nixon Waterman 




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Boston and Chicago 

Forbes & Company 

1902 



Copyright, igo2, by 
Nixon Waterman 
All rights reserved 



THE LIBRARY OF 
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INSTEAD OF A PREFACE 

As a matter of course, whoever is responsible for 
the publication of a book must feel a certain anxiety 
lest the reader be not appreciative of its merits. Out 
of this anxiety comes what is commonly known as a 
" preface." The author usually feels that he must 
meet the prospective reader at the threshold, and in 
some fashion prepare him for the disappointment that 
is to follow. I omit from the present volume any 
form of preface, for two reasons, — neither of which I 
feel called upon to give. 

For permission to reprint many of the poems in 
this volume thanks are due the courtesy of the editors 
of The Hayville Watch Tower, The Mush and Milk 
Quarterly^ The Brush Creek Bajiner, The Hide and 
Tallow Investigator, The Pikeville Palladium, and The 
Butterine Vindicator. 

It is with a feeling of both sorrow and pride that I 
avail myself of this opportunity to answer in a general 
way letters received from time to time from magazine 
editors asking if it will be convenient for me to con- 
tribute articles desired for their publications. To 
each of these I would say : 

In thanking you for your flattering request I must 



Instead of a Preface 

express my regret that I am unable to avail myself of 
your offer, at this time, as I shall be occupied for 
several months in preparing manuscripts already 
promised. 

In declining to furnish the contribution you request, 
I trust the motives prompting my action will not be 
misconstrued. No reflection, whatever, upon the 
merit or character of your publication is intended. 
My non-acceptance of your offer may result from one 
or more of many causes, none of which relates to the 
desirability of your publication as a means of placing 
my work before the public. 

An editor on having a request for manuscript re- 
jected should not infer, necessarily, that his offer 
lacks the qualities that would ensure its acceptance 
by other writers of creditable standing. A request 
for manuscript which one writer may refuse, another 
may gladly consider. 

Again thanking you for your pleasant communica- 
tion, I am, Very sincerely, etc., 

Nixon Waterman. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Almost a Poem 55 

Average Man, The 143 

Baby's Letter, The 47 

Back-Stairs Poetry 87 

Basis of Criticism, The 23 

Boy's Vacation, A 123 

Christmas Like It Used to Be 97 

Cinch on Success, A 196 

Clothes Make the Woman, The 201 

" Cock-a-Doodle-Doo ! " 139 

Coming " Literary " Success, A 179 

Compromise, A 160 

Cuckoo Clock, The 157 

Cupid's Corner 91 

Deacon Easy's Opinion 17 

Deacon Hopeful's Idee 175 

Defence of Shakespeare, A 19 

Diplomatic Caddie, The 61 



Contents 



PAGE 



Doctor Goodcheer's Remedy 33 

Farewell to Robin 153 

Farmer Broadacre's Christmas 194 

Farmer Wayback's Woe 1 1 1 

" First Edition," A 120 

Folks We Read About 167 

Fourth in Easyville, The 191 

Garden's Message, The 24 

General Clean-Up, A 85 

Good Old Earth, The 59 

Good Tostle Paul 127 

Go Right on Working 152 

Her Number Two 203 

His Second Wife 182 

Hobbled Pegasus, A 40 

If We Did n't Have to Eat 161 

Interludes 29 

Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson 25 

Journalistic Laureate, The 125 

June-Time 80 

Just This Minute 93 

Keep A-Trying 65 

Key to Hades, The 113 

Lucky Hiram Streeter 31 

Making a Man 82 



Contents 



PAGE 



Mandy's Woman's Club 105 

Many and Many a Time 207 

Mary O'Malley 115 

Melon Song 177 

My Grandfather's Old " Snake " Fence ... 71 

My Neighbor's Dog 204 

Myself and I 69 

Ned's Letter to Santa Claus 187 

Neighbor Jones's Notion 189 

One Fair Woman, The 52 

One of the Has-Beens 169 

One with a Song, The 16 

Only a Word 208 

Our Thoughtless Wrongs 129 

Poetry a la Mode 75 

Poet's Lament, The 149 

Poor Man's Thanksgiving, The 121 

Potpourri 118 

Professor Killemoffski 77 

Quavers and Semiquavers 103 

Real Estate Wanted 49 

Regardin' Hoss-Tradin' 171 

Salutatory 15 

Secret of Happiness, The 132 

Shakespearian Jest, A 63 



Contents 



PAGH 



Shreds and Patches 155 

Smartweed and Ticklegrass S;^ 

Song of the Katydid, The 99 

Song or Sigh ? 90 

Steady Worker, The 199 

Stuffed Little Boy, The 147 

Thankful Parson, A 163 

Them Tunes the Circus Plays 109 

This Sorry World 130 

" To Know All Is to Forgive AH " 117 

Toward the Light 28 

Trials of Genius, The . . loi 

Triumph of Genius, The 43 

Uncle Abner's Whistle 45 

Uncle Joshua's Experience 135 

Uncle Phil's Philosophy 185 

Union Wages . . / 108 

Very Remarkable Case, A 54 

Village Philosopher, The 37 

What a Boy Can Do 73 

What Have We Done To-day ? 67 

When a Man 's in Love 165 

When Daddy Comes Home 57 

When John Comes Home from College ... 20 

When Mother Cut My Hair 133 



Contents 



PAGE 



When She's Away 205 

" Why-Did n't- You ?" Man, The 145 

Winter Morn, A 138 

Wise Sire, The 95 

Woman : A Study 35 



IN MERRY MOOD 

TN shaping up this book of rhymes, 

I do not mind admitting, 
I 've changed them 'round a dozen times 

To make them seem more fitting. 
I know the first one ought to be 

So fashioned 't would arrest one 
And make him read, and so, you see, 

I 've tried to find the best one. 

But, oh, so many are so good, 

(The critics may deny it,) 
To find the best I never could, 

'T is useless, quite, to try it. 
And so I print these lines instead. 

Preferring that the reader 
Shall say, when he the book has read, 

Which one should be the leader. 

15 



THE ONE WITH A SONG 

'T^HE cloud-maker says it is going to storm, 
And we 're sure to have awful weather, - 
Just terribly wet, or cold, or warm, 

Or, maybe, all three together ; 
But, while his spirit is overcast 

With the gloom of his dull repining, 
The one with a song comes smiling past, 

And, lo ! the sun is shining. 

The cloud-maker tells us the world is wrong. 

And is bound in an evil fetter, 
But the blue-sky man comes bringing a song 

Of hope that shall make it better ; 
And the toilers, hearing his voice, behold 

The sign of a glad to-morrow. 
Whose hands are heaped with the purest gold 

Of which each heart may borrow. 



i6 



DEACON EASY'S OPINION 

TT ELL'S playin' out! No matter what the 

orthodoxers say 
That 's tryin' fer to keep it hot, it 's fadin' every 

day. 
The place where sinners sweltered in the tortures 

o' the damned, 
Has kind o' been made over like, an' sort o' cooled 

an' ca'med. 

The pit o' burnin' sulphur over which they used to 

shake 
A feller every Sunday, so 's to keep him wide 

awake. 
An' the awful smell o' brimstone an' the imps that 

shrieked with glee, 
They ain't one-half so terrible as what they used 

to be. 

Some pious people say it 's wrong to let the fires 
die; 

They 'd ruther keep 'em goin' jest to hear the sin- 
ners cry. 

17 



Deacon Easy's Opinion 

•' What good is heaven goin' to prove ? " they ask, 

" fer me er you 
If everybody else gits in to share the glory, too ? " 

I 'd ruther that the Lord 'd save us all among the 

blest, 
Ner damn a soul, not even his who wants to damn 

the rest. 
I 'm glad the fire 's dyin' out, jest awful glad, an' 

yit 
I s'pose fer them that want a hell that 's what 

they ought to git. 



i8 



A DEFENCE OF SHAKESPEARE 

OOME folks declare we geniuses are cold toward 
one another, 

But here and now I show the world that I '11 de- 
fend a brother 

Against the slanders of the foes who offer to 
demean us, 

The very same as if there were no rivalry be- 
tween us. 

Now there are those who do not like our Shake- 
speare, so 't is said, 

Because, by will, he left his wife his " second best 
bed," 

But when he made his will, no doubt — 't is easy 
to perceive it — 

He occupied his best bed and was then too sick 
to leave it. 



19 



WHEN JOHN COMES HOME FROM 
COLLEGE 

TX7HEN he comes home from college, why, I 

cal'late John '11 know 
'Bout all there is worth findin' out, if what he 

writes is so. 
He sort o' intimates it won't be worth our while 

to look 
Per things that he can't tell us, 'twixt the covers of 

a book. 

Last week an agent come along an' wasted half a 

day, 
An' done his best to make me buy a cy-clo-pe-di-a 
In thirty-five big volumes ; but I told him from 

the start 
My boy 'd be home from college soon, an' knowed 

'em all by heart. 

I sort o' snap my fingers now at every gazetteer 
An' dictionary an' the like, fer John '11 soon be 
here, 

20 



When John Comes Home from College 

An' then instead o' havin' fer to study out the fac's 
Our John '11 up an' tell us, fer I s'pose he's 
sharper 'n tacks. 

But 'Mandy, — she's his mother,- — well, she sort 

o' shakes her head. 
An' says some boys ain't much improved by bein' 

college-bred ; 
The more the brain develops an' the more the 

head expands. 
The less o' homely strength there is fer workin' 

with the hands. 

Concernin' hands that may be true, but with the 

legs I know 
A thorough college trainin' is the thing to make 

*em grow ; 
Fer Jones's boy from Harvard hit the barn-door 

every shot 
In kickin' all the punkins from a big three-acre lot. 

I don't jest understand it, but I 've heard from 

two or three 
That John 's the best at fencin' ; well, that suits 

me to a T, 

21 



When John Comes Home from College 

Fer half the fences round the farm need buildin' 

over new ; 
So jest the minute John arrives I '11 give him lots 

to do. 

In highly educatin' him I hain't spared no ex- 
pense ; 

Says I, "■ I '11 git the dollars, John, if you '11 jest 
git the sense ;" 

An' one thing I 'm convinced he 's learned, an' got 
it very pat, 

Is how to spend the money ; I can testify to that ! 



22 



THE BASIS OF CRITICISM 

npHE literary editor was feeling good and glad, 
And not a manuscript or book he read that 
day was bad ; 

He scanned them very carefully, with notes, from 
end to end. 

He questioned very little, but found plenty to com- 
mend. 

But, oh ! that night he dined on cheese, of strong 
stuff drank a lot ; 

Devoured limes and lobsters ; ate a mince pie, 
extra hot ; 

And on the morrow every book he ventured to 
attack 

He said was "rank" and "rocky," as he "ripped 
it up the back." 



23 



THE GARDEN'S MESSAGE 

"f X 7ITHIN my garden, hedged around 

With many a fragrant flower, is found. 
When summer spreads her azure skies, 
A host of brilliant butterflies. 

I know not how each rover brings 
So much of beauty on his wings ; 
I only know the dark cocoon 
Once hid this joyousness of June. 

Such wondrous grace is there, it seems 
More like the witchery of dreams ; 
My eyes behold, yet I am slow 
To sense the transcendental glow. 

But since these things I see are true, 
May not some realm I journey to 
Be my all-beauteous life, while this 
Is but the cruder chrysalis ? 

24 



JOHNNY'S HIST'RY LESSON 

T THINK, of all the things at school 

A boy has got to do, 
That studyin' hist'ry, as a rule, 

Is worst of all, don't you ? 
Of dates there are an awful sight, 
An' though I study day an' night. 
There 's only one I 've got just right — 

That 's fourteen ninety-two. 

Columbus crossed the Delaware 

In fourteen ninety-two ; 
We whipped the British, fair an' square, 

In fourteen ninety-two. 
At Concord an' at Lexington 
We kept the redcoats on the run 
While the band played " Johnny Get Your Gun," 

In fourteen ninety-two. 

Pat Henry, with his dyin' breath — 

In fourteen ninety-two — 
Said, " Gimme liberty or death ! " 

In fourteen ninety-two. 

25 



Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson 

An* Barbara Frietchie, so 't is said, 
Cried, " Shoot if you must this old, gray head, 
But I 'd rather 't would be your own instead ! " 
In fourteen ninety-two. 

The Pilgrims came to Plymouth Rock 

In fourteen ninety-two, 
An' the Indians standin' on the dock 

Asked, " What are you goin' to do ? " 
An' they said, " We seek your harbor drear 
That our children's children's children dear 
May boast that their forefathers landed here 

In fourteen ninety-two." 

Miss Pocahontas saved the life, 

In fourteen ninety-two. 
Of John Smith, an' became his wife 

In fourteen ninety-two. 
An' the Smith tribe started then an' there, 
An* now there are John Smiths everywhere. 
But they did n't have any Smiths to spare 

In fourteen ninety-two. 

Kentucky was settled by Daniel Boone 
In fourteen ninety-two, 

26 



Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson 

An' I think the cow jumped over the moon 

In fourteen ninety-two. 
Ben Franklin flew his kite so high 
He drew the lightnin' from the sky. 
An' Washington could n't tell a lie 

In fourteen ninety-two. 



27 



TOWARD THE LIGHT 

T>RUSH back your hair and look up through 
the skylight ! 

Don't blink at God through the eyes of a mole ; 
Come from the gloom of a self-shrouded twilight 

Into the broad, golden day of the soul. 
Open your mind to the marvelous story 

Ten thousand planets eternally tell ; 
Think on their Cause nor beshadow the glory 

With narrowing fears of a man-fashioned hell. 

Say to your brother and sister, " I love you ! " 

Fill all of earth with your beautiful deeds. 
Climb to the heaven of beauty above you, 

Not on the ladder of meaningless creeds. 
Sow in the sunshine and reap in the gladness, 

Gather the joys as you journey along ; 
God will not curse with an infinite madness 

Souls that are filled with an infinite song. 



28 



INTERLUDES 

QMILE, once in awhile, 

'T will make your heart seem lighter ; 
Smile, once in awhile, 

'T will make your pathway brighter. 
Life 's a mirror, if we smile 

Smiles come back to greet us ; 
If we 're frowning all the while 

Frowns forever meet us. 

Count that day really worse than lost 
You might have made divine, 

Through which you scattered lots of frost 
And ne'er a speck of shine. 

Canst thou see no beauty nigh ? 
Cure thy dull, distempered eye. 
Canst thou no sweet music hear > 
Tune thy sad, discordant ear. 
Earth has beauty everywhere 
If the eye that sees is fair. 
Earth has music to delight 
If the ear is tuned aright. 
29 



Interludes 

Toil holds all genius as its own, 
For in its grasp a force is hid 

To make of polished words or stone, 
A poem or a pyramid. 

Words were designed for those who preach. 
But deeds are for the ones who teach. 

No man can feel himself alone 

The while he bravely stands 
Between the best friends ever known, — 

His two good, honest hands. 

If you love me and I love you 
Then heaven lies all around us two. 

<' Blues " are the soggy calms that come 
To make our spirits mope, 
And steal the breeze of promise from 
The shining sails of hope. 

No door can shut so close and true 
But love and death can still steal through. 
30 



LUCKY HIRAM STREETER 



L 



UCKIEST man you ever see 
Is that man Hiram Streeter ; 
Don't persume there '11 ever be 
'Nother such lucky creetur. 
Knowed him since we was little boys 

'Way back there together ; 
His life's been chock full o' joys, 
Mine o' stormy weather. 

At school, 'f some puzzlin' answer stuck 

The rest of us, he could tell it ; 
'F I missed a word, 'twas Hiram's luck 

To know jest how to spell it. 
So he continued to advance 

Along the path o' knowledge 
Till, 's luck would have it, he got a chance 

To work his way through college. 

Come back home an' went to work, — 
Hard work, too, an' greasy, — 

Fired an engine ! I 'm no shirk. 
But I like things kind o' easy. 
31 



Lucky Hiram Streeter 

On an' on an' up he went, 

Wa' n't nothin' could resist him, 

Till now they 've made him president 
O' their hull big railroad system. 

Yes, luck 's the thing that makes the man, 

'T ain't no use denyin' ; 
If luck don't sort o' help you plan. 

You might as well quit tryin'. 
Fer years an' years I 've waited round 

Fer luck to make my fortune. 
While Hiram 's all the while been bound 

Right toward success a-scorchin'. 

My wife maintains it 's work an* pluck 

That made Hi such a winner ; 
She says that if you wait fer luck 

You '11 go without yer dinner. 
An I ain't sure but I '11 allow 

Had I 'a' quit a-wishin' 
An' worked, I 'd hold a place jest now 

As good as Hi's position. 



32 



DOCTOR GOODCHEER'S REMEDY 

t^EEL all out of kilter, do you ? 

Nothing goes to suit you quite ? 
Skies seem sort of dark and clouded, 

Though the day is fair and bright ? 
Eyes affected — fail to notice 

Beauty spread on every hand ? 
Hearing so impaired you 're missing 

Songs of promise sweet and grand ? 

No, your case is not uncommon, 

'T is a popular distress ; 
Though 't is not at all contagious. 

Thousands have it, more or less ; 
But it yields to simple treatment, 

And is easy, quite, to cure ; 
If you follow my directions 

Quick recovery is sure. 

Take a bit of cheerful thinking, 

Add a portion of content. 
And, with both, let glad endeavor. 

Mixed with earnestness be blent ; 
33 



Doctor Goodcheer's Remedy 

These, with care and skill compounded, 

Will produce a magic oil 
That is bound to cure, if taken 

With a lot of honest toil. 

If your heart is dull and heavy. 

If your hope is pale with doubt, 
Try this wondrous Oil of Promise, 

For 't will drive the evil out. 
Who will mix it } Not the druggist 

From the bottles on his shelf ; 
The ingredients required 

You must find within yourself. 



34 



WOMAN : A STUDY 

XT TOMAN, woman, winsome woman ! 
Tell us, are you saint or human, 
Or a toy Beelzebub has sent us from afar ? 
We 've thought about you, sighed about you. 
Fought about you, cried about you. 
Stayed up nights and lied about you, puzzle that 
you are. 

Just when we would dream we 've got you 

Figured out, as like as not you 
Leave us topsy-turvy, guessing what to say or do ; 

Now we hate you, then caress you, 

Now berate you, then we bless you, 
But our lives are stale unless you keep us in a 
stew. 

Some there are who really dread you, 
Some who long to woo and wed you, 

Some would banish you forever to a distant land ; 
Artists paint you, poets verse you, 
Bishops saint you, cynics curse you, 

But "for better or for worse" you still are in 
demand. 

35 



Woman : A Study 

There are times you sadly vex us, 

Puzzle, plague us and perplex us. 
Till we wish you were in — Texas, very far away ; 

But, although we sadly doubt you. 

You 've such winsome ways about you 
We can never do without you, so we let you stay. 



36 



THE VILLAGE PHILOSOPHER 

"T^OWN at the corner grocery store 
Sat Billings. Half a dozen more 
Were grouped about the stove that day 
To hear what Billings had to say. 
" 'T ain't my fault I was born so late," - 
Here Billings lit his pipe — " It 's fate ; 
Yes, fate that shapes the lives o' men 
An' tells 'em what to do an' when. 

" The ones who used to win success 
Would find hard sleddin' now, I guess. 
In tryin' fer to write their name 
High on the deathless scroll o' fame. 
Fer any man with brains can see 
Things ain't like what they used to be 
Back yonder when the world was new 
An' there was everything to do. 

" Fact is, to-day there ain't no chance 
Fer anybody to advance. 
The things worth doin' has been done ; 
There's nothin' left fer any one." 

37 



The Village Philosopher 

Here Billings paused and took a few 
Long, lingering whiffs, and softly blew 
The smoke in clouds above his head. 
And thought awhile, and then he said : 

** Now there 's Columbus : s'posin' he 
Was one of us to-day, he 'd see 
There ain't no worlds a-loafin' round 
Jest sort o' waitin' to be found. 
An' Franklin with his key an' kite, 
He could n't interest us a mite, 
Fer little children in their play 
Are doin' all he done, to-day. 

**The printin'-press, the railway-train, 

The ships that plow the ragin' main, 

An' telegraph an' telephone. 

An' all such things, were once unknown. 

Then all a feller had to do 

Was jest to think o' somethin' new 

An' tell it to the people, when 

They 'd class him with the brainy men. 

" Some folks say we 've as good a show 
As what they had a long ago 

38 



The Village Philosopher 

Fer findin' out things. That 's all bosh ; 
Leavin's is all we 've got, b' gosh ! 
It 's blamed discouragin' to me 
To sort o' glance about an' see 
The easy things that men have done 
That made 'em famous, every one. 

" An' say ! I purty nearly hate 
The man who dares to intimate 
The wise men who have passed away 
Was smarter 'n what we be to-day." 
Here Billings puffed his pipe awhile 
And then with something like a smile 
He added : " Guess they 'd got the worst 
Of it if we 'd 'a' got here first." 



39 



A HOBBLED PEGASUS 

"IVyTINE is a sorry narrative: My genius is so 

rare 
I cannot tell it to the world because I do not dare. 
For should I write my level best, I very clearly see, 
The world would just drop everything to stand and 
gaze at me. 

Were I to dress my grandest thoughts in my 

sublimest style, 
Shakespeare would be out-Shakespeared in a very 

little while ; 
And Milton, Byron, Shelley, Burns, — I 'd lay 

them in the shade, 
But, oh, I will not do it, for, alas, I am afraid ! 

You see it 's this way ; nowadays they dig up 
every note 

And buried scrap and letter that a genius ever 
wrote ; 

They turn the world all inside out, they search- 
light every nook 

For everything he 's put in words, and print it in a 
book. 

40 



A Hobbled Pegasus 
* 

Dear Reader, just between us two, I may as well 
confess 

That first and last, I 've courted twenty sweet- 
hearts, more or less ; 

I 've rhymed the story ever new to each succeed- 
ing flame. 

For though the heart has altered some the tale is 
just the same. 



Of course, in nearly every verse I change a word 

or two 
To get a rhyme for eyes of gray or black or brown 

or blue ; 
Or if a girl is short or tall or, likewise, plump or 

slight, 
I change the couplet just enough to make it jingle 

right. 

But you can guess my feelings were those twenty 

girls or more 
To fish up all those letters I have written by the 

score. 
And have them printed side by side to show my 

kith and kin 

41 



A Hobbled Pegasus 

How great an all-round, duplex, three-ply genius I 
have been ! 

Ah, well I know my safety lies in keeping out of 

sight. 
That 's why I do so poorly nearly everything I 

write ; 
For should I try my very best, some one, some 

sorry day, 
Would print my " Life and Letters," and the deuce 

would be to pay. 



42 



THE TRIUMPH OF GENIUS 

TT7ITH a kingly air and a fresh, firm tread 

And a glad, proud shake of his haughty 
head, 
A wonderful sonnet came one morn. 
Fresh from the brain of a Genius born. 
Up to the door, with a dauntless mien. 
Of the nation's foremost magazine 
He boldly went, for he knew full well 
That his were the lines that were bound to sell. 

And then and there was the sonnet read 
By the thick-skinned dolt with the puddin' head, 
Whose heart and liver and soul were wrong, 
For he did not purchase the grand new song. 
The sonnet, stung in his wounded pride, 
To another magazine then hied. 
But hissed, as he turned on his heel to go, 
** Your rival across the street will know 
A gem of the purest ray serene, 
And welcome me into his magazine ! " 

43 



The Triumph of Genius 

Oh, me ! Oh, my ! It is sad to state, 

Once more he met with a sorry fate. 

By this man, too, was his soul perplexed. 

And the next and the next and the next and the 

next 
And the next and the next, till, by and by, 
The sonnet who once was young and spry. 
Grew old and lame, and his halting feet 
Were sore from tramping from street to street ; 
But still his weak, thin voice would pipe, 
" Please, mister, may I get into type ? " 

But it 's hard to keep a good man down. 

And a Genius wins though the world may frown ; 

And the editors, lounging in easy chairs. 

Are sometimes taken quite unawares. 

This bright young Genius he peddled tripe 

Till he got him gold and a press and type, 

And then, ah, then ! with a great, proud swash. 

He printed his sonnet himself, b' gosh ! 



44 



* UNCLE ABNER'S WHISTLE 

T JNCLE ABNER has a sure, 
Never-failing trouble cure. 
Makes no difference what it is, 
'T can't withstand that tune of his 
That he whistles day by day. 
Smoothing all his cares away. 
Making heavy burdens light, 
And the shadowed places bright. 

Trouble, seeking out the men 
It would bother, pauses when 
It comes close enough to hear 
Uncle Abner ; leans its ear. 
Listens and remarks, *' That tune 
Surely makes him an immune. 
No use trying to get at 
Men who whistle tunes like that." 

'T is n't what most folks would call 
A fine, classic tune at all ; 
'T just goes softly rambling on 
Like a robin's song at dawn, 
45 



Uncle Abner's Whistle 

Till, somehow, you understand 
That his head and heart and hand 
Form a trio that must win 
Sweet reward through thick and thin. 

I have watched him, rain and shine. 
Tending plant and tree and vine ; 
Never knew him, hot or cold. 
To forget himself and scold. 
Still, there comes to him his share 
Of the world's big load of care ; 
Comes, ah, yes ! but does n't stay, — 
He just whistles it away. 



46 



THE BABY'S LETTER 

npHERE are letters prim and perfect in their 
every line and jot, 

In which each "t" receives a cross and every "i " 
a dot ; 

And rules of composition are observed with nicest 
care, 

While the very best of grammar is apparent every- 
where. 

But, ah ! no other message so a father's heart 
delights. 

As do those tangled traceries, — the note the baby 
writes : 




Who dares to say that babies do not know whereof 

they write ! 
Their meaning shines out warm and clear when 

love directs the sight. 
In every cabalistic line and angle one can see 
A sweetly mystic prophecy of all that is to be. 

47 



The Baby's Letter 

And hope brings to the yearning heart a borrowed 

touch of bHss, 
With dreams of home and heaven in the baby's 

note Uke this : 




When duty's voice has called us far away from 

home and friends, 
What joy to read the letters which the good wife 

ever sends ! 
Her words are sweet and golden, and there gleams 

between the lines 
A gracious light through which a wreath of love 

and beauty twines. 
And when her kindly sentences are finished, how 

it 'glads 
The wanderer from home to see the note the 

baby adds : 



48 



REAL ESTATE WANTED 

'T^HERE is n't land enough ! That 's why there 's 

so much trouble brewing, 
And war-ship manufacturers have all got something 

doing. 
Go where you will about the world you '11 find some 

eager squatter 
Has gobbled every speck of earth that sticks above 

the water. 

It used to be the proper thing, when peoples grew 

too crowded, 
To sail across the unknown seas which then in 

myths were shrouded, 
And find a brand-new continent as big as all 

creation 
And slice it up and trade it off to every tribe and 

nation. 

But were Columbus here to-day, and, likewise, 

Isabella, 
They could n't find a patch of ground as big as an 

umbrella 

49 



Real Estate Wanted 

That is n't duly tagged and stamped and charted 

and, hard by it, 
Perchance a war-ship loafing round to sink those 

who 'd deny it. 

In olden times geographies had maps that dimly 

faded 
Off into spots marked "unexplored," but now 

they 're clearly shaded 
To each degree and parallel, while tribes combat 

each other 
To have a boundary reset six feet one way or 

t' other. 

Yes, real estate is growing scarce, and, likewise, 

so expensive 
We ought to find some way to make the sea much 

less extensive. 
Of all the surface of the globe, why should but one 

small quarter 
Be solid land and all the rest just water, water, 

water ? 

If you have crossed the wide, wild sea, and had 

that tired feeling 
That steals beneath the traveler's vest whene'er 

the ship is reeling, 

SO 



Real Estate Wanted 

You Ve often thought, as day by day you deemed 

the ship was sinking, 
There 's lots more water in the world than people 

want for drinking. 

So really all we need to make our landed surface 

greater 
Is just to find, for water, some unique annihilator. 
The sea is now so far across it 's something of 

a bother; 
We need but just enough to reach from one coast 

to another. 

And since in vain for still more land we *ve closely 

searched the ocean. 
If we 'd increase our real estate, 't would be a clever 

notion 
To drain the sea until we find new islands rising 

through it — 
But where 's Columbus Number Two who '11 tell us 

how to do it ? 



SI 



THE ONE FAIR WOMAN 

'\7'E poets who for years and years have tried 

and tried to trace 
A woman who is perfect, quite, in mind and form 

and face, 
Please give me your attention while I truthfully 

portray 
The fairest bit of womanhood this old world holds 

to-day. 

Her cheeks are n't like the red, red rose of which 

you poets tell ; 
They 're just a sort of pinkish tan that suits me 

very well. 
Her nose is not of classic mold, I 'm willing to 

confess, 
It 's what you 'd very likely call " tip-tilted," more 

or less. 

<* 
Her eyes are n't like the silver stars that shine the 

long night through ; 
They 're mild and kind and soft, instead, and oh ! 

so warm and true. 

52 



The One Fair Woman 

Her hand is not a lily white, so daintily divine, 
But, oh ! it 's joy enough for me to feel its clasp 
in mine. 

Her neck is very pretty, but it is n't like the swan's 
Which nature made so lithe and long for diving 

in the ponds. 
And I 'm so glad she does n't own an alabaster 

brow, 
For hers is warm and blushing, which is better, 

you '11 allow. 

Of all your perfect women she 's the fairest of the 

lot, 
And since I 'm only human I am glad that she is 

not 
A ** fairy" or an "angel," quite, for if she were, 

you see. 
How very, very odd she 'd look when walking out 

with me. 



53 



A VERY REMARKABLE CASE 

/^H, once on a time there lived a man 

(There may have been two or three) 
Who fancied his death would sadly twist 

The whole community. 
So he lived as long as he could because 

He knew what an awful space 
There 'd be, that the world could never fill, 

With him in another place. 

But the next day after he died the sun 

Rose up in the same old way. 
And went right down in the same old place 

At the latter end of the day. 
And a stranger got off the cars to stretch 

His legs, while the engine ''drank," 
In the town where the corpse had lived for 
years. 

And never once noticed the blank. 



54 



ALMOST A POEM 

/t T sundown on the sand-dunes by the sea, 

The silence and my soul and I — we three — 
(Say, there 's a ripping starter for a verse ; 
There 's stuff in Shakespeare that 's a whole lot 

worse) — 
We saw the day slow darkle to the night, — 
(And there 's another line that 's fashioned right) 
The while uprose the moon, a silver queen, — 
(I '11 sell this to some first-class magazine). 

The waves, like pulsings of a mighty heart, — 
(This thing is easy when you get a start) 
With many a hollow laugh and angry roar 
Came (in some way or other) 'gainst the shore. 
And as we stood beneath that star-gemmed sky, 
We three — the silence and my soul and I — 
Each with the others crossed his trembling hand, — 
(Here I '11 find something that will rhyme with 
"sand.") 

O night ! O sea ! O stars ! (O me ! O my ! 
No wonder first-class poems come so high ; 
It wearies me to soar around and round 
And not permit my feet to touch the ground. 

55 



Almost a Poem 

'T is not so hard to write a verse or so 
About plain things that common people know, 
But lofty themes, they strangely stagger me.) 
At sundown on the sand-dunes by the sea, — 



S6 



WHEN DADDY COMES HOME 

'IT 7 HEN daddy is sober and working along, 

And giving my mammy his pay, 
You '11 hear her a-singing a sweet little song 

Like the fairy you see in a play. 
For she knows that at night when they meet at 
the door 
He '11 give her a jolly good kiss. 
But there 's frowning and fears, and there 's 
trouble and tears, 

Whe-^ %y ^o^es K^^ ^ike ^^^^ 

The people who laugh at a man going by, 

Because he is dizzy with drink. 
Will find all their smiles giving way to a sigh 

If they '11 stop for a moment and think. 
And they '11 pray for the ones in the desolate 
homes 

57 



When Daddy Comes Home 

Who must all of life's happiness miss, 
*' God pity the lives of the babes and the wives 

ue^^ ^h d^^Co ni^ ^Om , fh^s." 

-^^h^ ^e ^^^ ^ c*^ ^ lik^ 



58 



THE GOOD OLD EARTH 

T WANT to be an angel, 

But I 'm in no great fret 
To soar away, I 'd rather stay 

Right here awhile, you bet ! 
Give me the world's glad laughter 

And hearts of sterling worth ; 
Away with the hereafter, 

I love the good old Earth. 

O, Earth ! A tender mother 

You 've been to me and mine. 
I 'm blest with friend and brother, 

With meat and bread and wine. 
I will not say I 'm yearning 

To try another sphere : 
Such gracious things your goodness brings, 

I love to linger here. 

My neighbor, Deacon Watkins, 

Keeps sighing for to go 
'Cross Jordan's strand to that fair land 

Where healing waters flow. 
59 



The Good Old Earth 

But just the other day he ate 
Some stuff that made him sick, 

And he told his folks to rush and get 
The doctor, double-quick ! 



60 



THE DIPLOMATIC CADDIE 

" A ND mind," said the " links "-eyed caddie 

To the boy he was teaching how 
He must do the work, *' my laddie, 

I tell you here and now 
There are times to be all attention 

To every move and play. 
But now and then come moments when 

You must look the other way. 

" When Smith or Jones or Foster 

Is playing along with men. 
And the ball by chance is lost or 

Is hid for awhile, oh, then 
He is sure to scold you soundly 

And skimp you in your pay. 
And fume and fret in an awful sweat 

'Cause you looked the other way. 

" But when one of them brings a lady 

For a quiet little game, 
And she stops to rest where it 's shady, 

And he goes and does the same, 
6i 



The Diplomatic Caddie 

Then, if you know your duty — 
Remember what I say — 

You won't be near enough to hear, 
And you'll look the other way." 



62 



A SHAKESPEARIAN JEST 

Tl^HEN Shakespeare wrote, " Have you not 
heard 

It said full oft a woman's nay 
Doth stand for naught ? " 't was then he erred 

And in a most colossal way. 
I 'm willing to confess that Will 

In lots of cases hit it right, 
But in those quoted words his quill 

Got off its truthful trolley, quite. 

I had a mother once, ah, yes ! 

Whose heart with tenderness was fraught, 
But when she told me "nay" I guess 

I dared not think it stood for naught. 
And had Will been a boy with me 

And felt that slipper once or twice, 
I 'm very certain he 'd agree 

That mother's "nay" cut lots of ice. 

In later years I found a wife, 

A little, tender, clinging vine, 
Whom I 'm to keep and guard for life 

With these big, stalwart arms of mine, 

63 



A Shakespearian Jest 

But think you I am " boss " to-day ? 

Ah, no! The "vine" controls the "oak." 
That stuff about a woman's nay 

Will must have written for a joke. 



64 



KEEP A -TRYING 

O AY " I will ! " and then stick to it — 

That 's the only way to do it. 
Don't build up awhile and then 
Tear the whole thing down again. 
Fix the goal you wish to gain, 
Then go at it heart and brain, 
And, though clouds shut out the blue, 
Do not dim your purpose true 

With your sighing. 
Stand erect, and, like a man, 
Know *< They can who think they can.** 

Keep a-trying. 

Had Columbus, half seas o'er, 
Turned back to his native shore, 
Men would not, to-day, proclaim 
Round the world his deathless name. 
So must we sail on with him 
Past horizons far and dim, 
Till at last we own the prize 
That belongs to him who tries 
With faith undying ; 

6s 



Keep A -Trying 

Own the prize that all may win 
Who, with hope, through thick and thin 
Keep a-trying. 



66 



WHAT HAVE WE DONE TO-DAY? 

T T ^E shall do so much in the years to come, 

But what have we done to-day ? 
We shall give our gold in a princely sum, 

But what did we give to-day ? 
We shall lift the heart and dry the tear, 
We shall plant a hope in the place of fear. 
We shall speak the words of love and cheer ; 

But what did we speak to-day ? 

We shall be so kind in the after while, 

But what have we been to-day ? 
We shall bring each lonely life a smile. 

But what have we brought to-day ? 
We shall give to truth a grander birth, 
And to steadfast faith a deeper worth. 
We shall feed the hungering souls of earth ; 

But whom have we fed to-day ? 

We shall reap such joys in the by and by. 

But what have we sown to-day ? 
We shall build us mansions in the sky. 

But what have we built to-day ? 

67 



What Have We Done To-day ? 

'T is sweet in idle dreams to bask, 
But. here and now do we do our task ? 
Yes, this is the thing our souls must ask, 
*' What have we done to-day ? " 



68 



MYSELF AND I 

TV/TYSELF and I close friends have been 

Since 'way back where we started. 
We two, amid life's thick and thin, 

Have labored single-hearted. 
In every season, wet or dry. 

Or fair or stormy weather. 
We 've joined our hands, myself and I, 

And just worked on together. 

Though other friends have been as kind 

And loving as a brother. 
Myself and I have come to find 

Our best friend in each other. 
For while to us obscure and small 

May seem the task they bend to. 
We 've learned our fellow men have all 

They and themselves can tend to. 

Myself and I, and we alone, 

You and yourself, good neighbor, 

Each in his self-determined zone 
Must find his field of labor. 
69 



Myself and I 

That prize which men have called success 

Has joy nor pleasure in it 
To satisfy the soul unless 

Myself and I shall win it. 



70 



/ "^0 


o 


- %. 


^<=? 





MY GRANDFATHER'S OLD '* SNAKE " 

FENCE 

T LIVED on a farm, in my innocent youth, 

With my grandfather, hoary and wise. 
And many a lucid and logical truth 

He brought to my wondering eyes. 
Yet one thing I saw seemed so all out of rhyme 

With a man of his wonderful sense, — 
I Ve thought of it many and many a time, — 

A^ ■%_ y ^-. ^.^ 

He harped on " economy " day after day. 
And labored to " save " all he could ; 

Yet he fashioned his fence in so crooked a way 
It took twice the rails that it should. 

And a broad strip of land, filled with briars and 
trash. 
Was left in the corners, and hence 

It robbed him each year of considerable cash, 



My Grandfather's Old *' Snake " Fence 

But since I 've grown older and travel about, 

I find every man has a " trait " ; 
On some line of thought he is crooked with doubt, 

Though in everything else he is straight. 
His brain may be clear as his reason is sound. 

And his grasp of ideas immense, 
Yet on some point or other he zigzags around 



72 



WHAT A BOY CAN DO 

n^HESE are some of the things a boy can do : 

He can shout so loud the air turns blue ; 
He can make all sounds of beast and bird, 
And a thousand more they never heard. 

He can crow or cackle, chirp or cluck, 
Till he fools the rooster, hen, or duck ; 
He can mock the dog or lamb or cow. 
And the cat herself can't beat his " me-ow." 

He has sounds that are ruffled, striped, or plain ; 
He can thunder by like a railway-train. 
Stop at the stations a breath, and then 
Apply the steam and be off again. 

He has all of his powers in such command, 
He can turn right into a full brass band, 
With all of the instruments ever played, 
And march away as a street parade. 

73 



What a Boy Can Do 

You can tell that a boy is very ill 
If he 's wide awake and is keeping still ; 
But earth would be — God bless their noise 
A dull old place if there were no boys. 



74 



POETRY A LA MODE 

/^H, the weird, wank wail of the billy-go-bing, 

And the shriek of a whimpering loon ; 
And the shimmering sigh of a dragon-fly 

On the thitherward side of the moon. 
And the shuddering shud of a river of mud, 

And a dray and a hardware store, 
For the next day it blowed and the next day it 
snowed 
Not any, none, never, no more. 

Oh, the drip, drip, drip of a leaky ship, 

And the boy, oh, where was he ? 
Oh, I don't care a cent which way he went 

For I get my salaree. 
And there ain't no ship and there ain't no shore 

And there ain't no earth nor air, 
And there ain't no nothing any more 

Nor never was anywhere. 

Oh, the wheels go round and round and round. 

But curfew shall not ring. 
For the purple cow is dreaming now 

In a bright red grape-vine swing. 

75 



Poetry a la Mode 

" I am not mad ! " Nay, not one whit, 

My spirit is all serene ; 
For I 'm trying to think of some lines to fit 

The modern magazine. 



76 



PROFESSOR KILLEMOFFSKI 

pROFESSOR KILLEMOFFSKI had but one 

supreme delight, 
Which was to find some certain way in which to 

win a fight. 
He cruised right round that thought until he made 

a gun so great 
And powerful that it could sink a navy while you 

wait. 

And when he had that gun complete so it would 
send a shot 

Right through an armored vessel's side and sink it 
on the spot, 

He set himself about it just as firmly to create 

A war-ship made of stuff no gun could ever pene- 
trate. 

And finally he built a boat, and did his work so 

well 
That gun of his could never drill a window through 

its shell ; 

77 



Professor KillemofFski 

Its sides were some new kind of steel so tough and 

firm and stout 
That all the guns in Christendom could never 

knock it out. 

And yet he was not satisfied, but studied day and 

night ; 
He lunched on smokeless powder and he dined on 

dynamite. 
The fierce expression on his face was proof beyond 

a doubt 
That there were other problems still for him to 

figure out. 

He went away off by himself and built a secret 

mill, 
'T was " fifteen miles from nowhere," and he camped 

right there until 
He found a new explosive so all - powerful and 

fierce 
That it could send a shell through steel no other 

shot could pierce. 

He still kept on inventing ; every gun he made 

would shoot 
Ten times as far as all the rest and twice as straight 

to boot, 

78 



Professor Killemoffski 

Until, at last, he made a gun that shot so far, 

alack ! 
The ball went clear around the world and hit him 

in the back. 

But maybe it was for the best, for, had he lived, 

full soon 
He must have made a gun with which to shoot 

away the moon 
And Venus, Saturn, Mercury and Jupiter and Mars, 
And on and on and on until he shot out all the 

stars. 



79 



JUNE -TIME 

TT 'S June-time, we can tell it by the murmur of 

the bees, 
It 's June-time, we can smell it in the clover-scented 

breeze. 
It 's June-time and it 's tune-time for the birds 
among the trees — 

Glad June-time when the days are sweet 
and long. 
It 's June-time and the roses spill their perfume on 

the air. 
It 's June-time and the leafy lanes are wonderfully 

fair, 
It 's June-time and in dreams we kiss our finger- 
tips to care, 

It 's June-time and the world is full of 
song. 

But for the frosty winds that chilled the forest and 

the plain, 
But for the snowy drifts that filled the highway and 

the lane, 

80 



June -Time 

The June-time and the noon-time of the year were 
all in vain, 

'T was winter gave the sweetness to the 
spring ; 
And while his robes of fleecy white enfolded field 

and fen, 
The faith of better things to come was in the hearts 

of men. 
We knew in his appointed time the thrush would 
come again 

With love and joy and beauty on his wing. 

The hills are crowned with gladness and the vales 

are wrapped in rhyme, 
A thousand notes are blended in a melody sublime. 
It is the bhssful season when we 'd stop the clock 
of time 

And keep the June forever and a day : 
With blue skies for a canopy and green fields for 

a bed. 
And joy and grace in every place our willing feet 

are led. 
There 's happiness in every path and heaven over- 
head. 

So sweetly runs the winsome world away. 
8i 



MAKING A MAN 

TTURRY the baby as fast as you can, 

Hurry him, worry him, make him a man. 
Off with his baby-clothes," get him in pants, 
Feed him on brain-foods and make him advance. 
Hustle him, soon as he 's able to walk, 
Into a grammar-school ; cram him with talk. 
Fill his poor head full of figures and facts. 
Keep on a-jamming them in till it cracks. 
Once boys grew up at a rational rate, 
Now we develop a man while you wait. 
Rush him through college, compel him to grab 
Of every known subject a dip and a dab. 
Get him in business and after the cash. 
All by the time he can grow a mustache. 
Let him forget he was ever a boy, 
Make gold his god and its jingle his joy. 
Keep him a-hustling and clear out of breath, 
Until he wins — nervous prostration and death. 



82 



SMARTWEED AND TICKLEGRASS 

T ET 'S not despise just common things, 

For here 's a truth there is no dodging, 
The bird that soars on proudest wings 

Comes down to earth for board and lodging. 

How much of wisdom we can see 
With sages who with us agree ! 
But fools who hold some other view — 
Oh, bah ! They 're not worth listening to. 

Shut your mouth and open your eyes 
And you 're sure to learn something to make you 
wise. 

Once on a time I sought to woo 
A girl who wore a number two ; 
Her father wore a number ten — 
I never called on her again. 

Don't " hitch your wagon to a star," 

Young man, for as a rule, 
'T will prove more practical by far 

To hitch it to a mule. 
83 



Smartweed and Ticklegrass 

We 've noticed this, as we have eyed 

The doings of humanity, 
That what within ourselves is pride 

In other folks is vanity. 

A man of words and not of thoughts 
Is like a great big row of naughts. 

Take it easy, have your fun, 
And let the old world flicker ; 

The man who 's always on the run 
Won't " get there " any quicker. 

It is bad to have an empty purse, 

But an empty heart is a whole lot worse. 

If some of the churches are as bad 

As other churches say. 
Their steeples really ought — how sad ! — 

To point the other way. 

If you have words of strength and cheer 

With which to fill life's cup. 
Why, speak them, — speak them now and here, 

But otherwise, shut up ! 
84 



A GENERAL CLEAN-UP 

T T makes me kind o' sad to think this world will 

wander on 
In jest about the same old way when I am dead 

an' gone. 
'T will travel, so I calculate, on 'bout the same old 

jog. 
Ner wabble in its circumflex ner never slip a cog. 

I 'd like to think o' somethin' that would make me 

jest that great 
That when I come to shuffle off, the world would 

have to wait, 
Ner never do a thing but weep an' wail an' fret 

an' stew, 
Because I could n't be around to tell it what to do. 

Why, hang it all ! it seems to me that when I 

come to go 
'T would be a joy to jest break up the hull big 

bloomin' show, 

8s 



A General Clean - Up 

An' see the world, from end to end, plumb shiv- 
ered all to smash 

An' all the stars come tumblin' down in one 
tremendous crash. 

I don't want folks a-nosin' round the humble little 

slab 
That marks my grave a-shootin* off their ever- 

lastin' gab, 
An' makin' faces at me through the cemetery fence 
A-sayin', " That 's old Blinks's grave — he owes me 

fifty cents." 
No, sir ! I 'd ruther have the world filled plumb 

up to the vest 
With nitroglycerine enough to blow it galley-west. 
An' when old Death comes sneakin' round to have 

his final spat 
I 'd like to touch the hull thing off an' let it go at 

that. 



86 



BACK -STAIRS POETRY 

TTE was a hungry poet, and he struggled with a 

will 
To earn enough of bread and meat his famished 

form to fill, 
But though he wrote incessantly, he found it very 

hard 
To make a living at the price they paid him by 

the yard. 
He kept on growing leaner, and his purse kept 

growing slim. 
Until one happy, golden day a brain-wave came to 

him ; 
"Eureka ! " cried the poet, " I have found the way 

to bliss, 
I can fill a column quicker with 

The 
Last 
Line 
Set 
Like 
This." 

87 



Back - Stairs Poetry 

And, sure enough, a fortune lay almost within his 

clutch, 
For by his new-found process he could grind out 

twice as much ; 
And poems that had filled of space but half a yard 

before, 
He then strung out until they made a good long 

yard or more. 
And he who had been nearly starved began to 

live quite high ; 
On Wednesdays he had pudding and on Sundays 

he had pie ; 
Between this man and fortune there had yawned a 

great abyss, 
But now he bridged it over with 

The 
Last 
Line 
Set 
Like 
This. 

The sweetest joys, they tell us, are the shortest in 

their stay. 
And pretty soon a lot of bards were writing verse 

that way ; 

88 



Back - Stairs Poetry 

But editors are foxy, and they cut the price in 

half, 
And when the bards protested, oh, they gave them 

all the laugh. 
And then the hapless poets, oh, they cursed their 

sorry fate — 
They had to sell their good straight stuff at stair- 
way verses' rate, 
For soon they learned the editors would speedily 

dismiss 
A poet who wrote verses with 

The 
Last 
Line 
Set 
Like 
This. 



89 



SONG OR SIGH? 

IF you were a bird and shut in a cage 
Now what would you better do, — 
Would you grieve your throat with a sorry note 

And mourn the whole day through ; 
Or would you swing and chirp and sing, 

Though the world were warped with wrong, 
Till you filled one place with the perfect grace 

And gladness of your song ? 

If you were a man and shut in a world 

Now what would you better do, — 
On a gloomy day when skies were gray 

Would you be gloomy, too ? 
When crossed with care would you let despair 

Life's happy hopes destroy. 
Or with a smile work on the while 

You found the path to joy ? 



90 



CUPID'S CORNER 

AWAY up in the attic where the wind says 

'*■ W 00-00 1 

And the boards are warped and shrunken and the 

breeze steals through, 
We were seeking after treasure on a rainy day in 

June 
That her sunny smiles were changing to a golden 

afternoon. 
I loved her, yes, I worshipped her, but really did 

not dare 
To summon up my courage and declare it then and 

there ; , 

And of my beating heart I asked, " Oh, what am I 

to do 
Away up in the attic?" — and the wind said 

" wo 0-00 ! " 

She heard the wind's low whisper, and within her 

smiling eyes 
I seemed to read the hidden words, " He, only, wins 

who tries." 

9i 



Cupid's Corner 

My heart sprang up to tell its love, and kneeling 

at her feet 
I won the cherished vow that made my happiness 

complete. 
And now I say to lovers who are eager to possess 
A promise from the dear ones who their lot in life 

may bless, 
If you would gain the happy prize you ardently 

pursue, 
Go linger in the attic where the wind says 



02 



JUST THIS MINUTE 

TF we 're thoughtful, just this minute, 

In whate'er we say and do ; 
If we put a purpose in it 

That is honest, through and through. 
We shall gladden life and give it 

Grace to make it all sublime ; 
For, though life is long, we live it 

Just this minute at a time. 

Just this minute we are going 

Toward the right or toward the wrong ; 
Just this minute we are sowing 

Seeds of sorrow or of song. 
Just this minute we are thinking 

On the ways that lead to God, 
Or in idle dreams are sinking 

To the level of the clod. 

Yesterday is gone ; to-morrow 
Never comes within our grasp ; 

Just this minute's joy or sorrow, 
That is all our hands may clasp. 
93 



Just This Minute 

Just this minute ! Let us take it 
As a pearl of precious price, 

And with high endeavor make it 
Fit to shine in paradise. 



94 



THE WISE SIRE 

/^OME hither, my child, come and sit on my knee 

While I tell you as well as I can. 
About all these wonderful things which we see 

That appeal to the reason of man. 
From our home on the earth we view many a star 

And a sun that makes golden the sky, 
But you are so young you don't know what they 
are 
And, candidly, neither do I. 

They are really too much for your poor little brain, 

All the puzzles you 're certain to meet ; 
Why is one flower spotted, another one plain ? 

What makes the fruit sour or sweet ? 
What keeps the sun shining ? What causes the 
tides ? 
What holds all the planets on high ? 
You 've found for these questions, and many be- 
sides. 
No answer, and neither have I. 

95 



The Wise Sire 

Which first had its being, the egg or the hen ? 

Solve that puzzle for me, if you please. 
Did men spring from monkeys, or monkeys from 
men? 

Oh, all such conundrums as these 
Are really too deep for a youngster like you 

To solve, though you earnestly try. 
For I never have met anybody that knew 

Their answers, and neither do I. 

In short, my dear child, though your papa is wise 

As most other men, he has found. 
That while to acquire much learning he tries. 

His wisdom 's not truly profound. 
I boast a good deal and I make quite a show 

Of my poor little portion of brains, 
But down in my heart I 'm aware that I know 

Just enough to come in when it rains. 



96 



CHRISTMAS LIKE IT USED TO BE 

r^iHRISTMAS like it used to be ! 

That 's the thing would gladden me. 
Kith and kin from far and near 
Joining in the Christmas cheer. 
Oh, the laughing girls and boys ! 
Oh, the feasting and the joys ! 
Would n't it be good to see 
Christmas like it used to be ? 

Christmas like it used to be, — 
Snow a-bending bush and tree. 
Bells a-jingling down the lane ; 
Cousins John and Jim and Jane, 
Sue and Kate and all the rest 
Dressed up in their Sunday best, 
Coming to that world of glee, — 
Christmas like it used to be. 

Christmas like it used to be, — 
Been a long, long time since we 
Wished (when Santa Claus should come), 
You a doll and I a drum, 

97 



Christmas Like It Used To Be 

You a book and I a sled 
Strong and swift and painted red, — 
Oh, that day of jubilee ! 
Christmas like it used to be. 

Christmas like it used to be. 

It is still as glad and free 
And as fair and full of truth, 
To the clearer eyes of youth. 
Could we gladly glimpse it through 
Eyes our children's children do 
In their joy-time, we would see 
Christmas like it used to be. 



98 



THE SONG OF THE KATYDID 

"1X7 HEN the summer wanes and the orchard 
lanes 

Are sweet with the scent of wine, 
And the apples red and the grapes full-fed 

Hang ripe on the tree and vine ; 
From the leafy hedge at the garden's edge 

Or deep in the grasses hid, 
Now strong and clear, now faint, we hear 

The song of the katydid. 

As the dusk dips down on the field and town 

And the first star lights his lamp, 
There comes the scent of spices blent, 

From the meadows dim and damp. 
And a simple tune like a drowsy croon 

Brings rest to the drooping lid, 
As we dreaming, hark, 'tween the day and dark, 

To the song of the katydid. 

'T is a note of cheer in the child's glad ear 

As it follows the tuneful lay, 
But it brings the sigh and the moistened eye 

To the ones whose locks are gray. 



The Song of the Katydid 

For the years long sped and the hopes long dead, 
And the dreams our cares have hid, 

Steal back once more from a misty shore, 
In the song of the katydid. 



lOO 



THE TRIALS OF GENIUS 

QOMETIMES when I 'm a-workin' jest my very 
level best 

To write a high-toned poem, I feel terribly dis- 
tressed 

To have to lay my pencil down an' go to doin* 
chores, 

Jest like a common mortal, while my fancy soars 
an' soars. 

It 's mighty worryin' to be a high-born genius while 
You have n't got the wherewithal to keep yerself 

in style. 
An' when I put my writin' by, some homely task 

to do, 
I ask myself did Shakespeare use to have his trials, 

too? 

I fancy I can see him now a-writin' on his plays 
An' runnin' up ag'in' the snags I find these later 

days. 
I s'pose jest when he 'd strike a thought he knowed 

was mighty good. 
He 'd have to leave it then an' there, an' go an' 

split the wood. 

lOI 



The Trials of Genius 

An' when some big, inspirin' theme was jest about 

to dawn, 
I calculate that that 's jest when he 'd have to 

mow the lawn. 
An' when his muse was soarin' high, — I 've been 

right there, you know, — 
The garden needed tendin' an' he 'd have to use 

the hoe. 

It is n't right fer geniuses like me to putter round 
A-doin' all the humdrum things that everywhere 

abound. 
Our hull life's duty ought to be to sit an' dream 

an' wait 
An' muse an' let our hair grow out an' think o' 

somethin' great. 

That 's what I tell Amanda, — she 's my wife, — 

but no, sirree ! 
Fer forty years that woman has been jest 

a-houndin' me. 
An' when I tell her Genius ain't no hand at doin' 

chores. 
She smiles, an' says, " Well, Genius, then, will have 

to sleep out-doors." 

1 02 



QUAVERS AND SEMIQUAVERS 

Vf/HENE'ER, by chance, my love and I 

Fall out, dark clouds obscure the sky ; 
But, oh ! the sun shines brightly when, 
Relenting, we make up again. 

Dreams are from Fairyland despatched, 

And to our minds are brought 
In airy sleeping-cars attached 

To misty trains of thought. 

He growled at morning, noon, and night. 

And trouble sought to borrow ; 
Although to-day the sky were bright 

He knew 't would storm to-morrow. 
A thought of joy he could not stand 

And struggled to resist it ; 
Though sunshine dappled all the land 

This sorry pess'vmsf it. 

" Yes, darling ! " he cried, "you shall reign as my 
queen. 
Every gift of the gods shall be thine ; 

103 



Quavers and Semiquavers 

All the wealth and affection of earth I shall glean 
For the joy of my princess, divine ! " 

"Oh, dearest," she murmured, *'you bring me 
such bliss " — 
Here a blush warmed her beautiful cheek, — 

" Just to think you are going to do all of this 
On only eight dollars a week ! " 

If, ever, while this minute 's here, 

We use it circumspectly, 
We '11 live this hour, this day, this year, 

Yes, all our lives correctly. 

Better, my dear, be an angel here, 

Than wait until you die. 
For a pair of wings will be handy things 

To carry you to the sky. 



104 



MANDY'S WOMAN'S CLUB 

OINCE Mandy joined the Woman's Club, land 

sakes, how she has changed 1 
And everything about the house has all been 

rearranged. 
And all that Mandy says and does now means a 

whole lot more 
Than simple, commonplace affairs have ever meant 

before. 

She talks of science, politics, of chemistry and 

art ; 
Each ology and ism, oh, she has 'em all by heart ; 
For lecturers on every theme address her club, you 

see. 
And straightway Mandy hurries home to try their 

talk on me. 

Yes, Mandy 's taught me how to breathe ; I never 

knew before, 
Although I Ve tried it d^y and night for forty years 

and more ; 
And now she *s learning how to think, and says 

that maybe I 

105 



Mandy's Woman's Club 

Could sometime learn to do as much if I would 
only try. 

She 's also learning how to eat, and what and when 
and where ; 

Our foods are tried and tested, weighed and meas- 
ured out with care. 

It frightens me to think that once we ate just 
common stuff. 

Yes, ate it and kept eating till we thought we had 
enough. 



And Mandy says that harmony is what the spirit 
craves, — 

Health, beauty, wisdom, all are brought on vibra- 
tory waves. 

When these are as they ought to be, the cares of 
life are gone. 

And all a mortal has to do is just live on and on. 

It saddens my poor heart to know my great-grand- 
parents died 

When they were only ninety odd ; it cannot be 
denied 

1 06 



Mandy's Woman's Club 

That, if those poor old simple souls had found a 

way to get 
The worlds of wisdom Mandy has, they 'd all be 

living yet. 



07 



UNION WAGES 

IVyTY board and clothes and a place to sleep 

Are all that I can earn. 
I rise with the lark and work till dark. 

And save at every turn. 
I strive, and yet all I can get, 

Though I grab, and grasp, and keep. 
And house, and hoard, is just my board 

And clothes and a place to sleep. 

My lot would seem a sorrowful one, 

But there are others who 
Work twice as hard their gold to guard, 

For just these wages, too. 
And smile or frown, or king or clown. 

Or genius rare or cheap, 
Not one of the horde gets more than his board 

And clothes and a place to sleep. 



1 08 



THEM TUNES THE CIRCUS PLAYS 

T'M mighty fond o' preachin', if the speaker 

knows his text, 
An' don't hang on a point too long afore he finds 

the next ; 
I Hke to go to meetin' an' you '11 see me, rain er 

shine. 
When Sunday comes, a-waitin' in the house o' the 

Divine. 
I like to lead the singin' er to help the thing along, 
An' fairly split the rafters with some old revival 

song. 
But notwithstandin' I adore the sacred hymns o' 

praise 
I 've likewise got a hankerin' fer them tunes the 

circus plays. 

An' goin' home from meetin' with my heart chock 

full o' prayer 
I 've sometimes ketched my sinful lips a-whistlin' 

of an air 
I've heard the circus fellers play, — some tan- 

talizin' thing 

109 



Them Tunes the Circus Plays 

That knits its tendrils round yer mind an' stays 

fer keeps, by jing ! 
As deacon in the church I know them Hvely airs 

ain't jest 
What Christians ought to whistle on the day o' 

prayer and rest, 
An' mebbe that 's one reason why I like the workin' 

days, 
Fer then I whistle all I like them tunes the circus 

plays. 

I s'pose them solemn pieces are the only kind 

there is 
To make a feller realize this sinful state o' his. 
You 've got to make him sorry-like — that 's why, I 

understand. 
Revivals would be failures if they had a circus 

band. 
But lively music ketches me, and, so I say, by jing ! 
That when my funeral is held I 'd like to have 'em 

sing 
Some solemn piece er two I 've sung through all 

my mortal days. 
An' then have some brass band strike up them 

tunes the circus plays. 
no 



FARMER WAYBACK'S WOE 

/^LD Farmer Wayback's hair had not been tidied 

up for years, 
It hung about his collar and it covered up his ears ; 
But one day, when he went to town to sell a load 

of corn, 
He took a sudden notion he would have it neatly 

shorn. 

The change was something striking, and he could 

not blame the folks 
He chanced to meet along the road, for getting 

off their jokes. 
At first he did not mind them, but they worried 

him at last, 
For all his friends and neighbors sort of *' guyed" 

him when he passed. 

It seemed to him that every one was waiting just 

to yell, 
" Hello ! you 've got your hair cut ! " when he 

knew it mighty well ; 
m 



Farmer Wayback's Woe 

And so he hurried home to get beyond the gaze 

of men, 
Where he could hide in peace until his hair grew 

out again. 

And he was thankful when he drove within his 

barnyard gate, 
But even here he heard the words his soul had 

learned to hate ; 
For all the hens came crowding round, and craned 

their necks to see, 
And " Cut, cut, cut-your-hair-cut ! " cackled all of 

them in glee. 



112 



THE KEY TO HADES 

T POSSESS the key to Hades, and, my gentle 
lords and ladies, 
I intend to undertake a great reform ; 
For the mortals bold and silly, I propose to make 
it chilly, 
Or, in other words, I mean to make it warm. 
All the trying ones who bore us shall no longer 
lord it o'er us, 
And the pleasure of our being sadly mar ; 
For their hosts I '11 widely scatter, and I '11 send 
them — well, no matter, 
If you miss them, can't you fancy where they 
are? 

If you miss them can t yoti fancy where they are ? 
And rejoice to hear they're very, very far ; 
For I 'II now be busy stealing all who cause that 

tired feeling, 
If you miss them cant you fancy where they 

are ? 

There 's the man who, when the summer is a roast- 
ing, frying "hummer," 
By his questions sets our being in a stew ; 

113 



The Key to Hades 

In the fiercest kind of fire I shall broil him and 
inquire, 
" Oh, hello there ! Is it hot enough for you ? " 
All the lovey-dovey cooers and the public garden 
wooers. 
And the spoony pairs who " spark " while on 
the car ; 
*' Baby " girls without their mothers, and their 
cigaretted brothers — 
If you miss them, can't you fancy where they 
are ? 

There 's the awful fiend who grinds me with his 
constant " That reminds me," 
And a story he has told me o'er and o'er ; 
And another, half demented, who, when I have 
just invented 
Something new, declares he 's heard it all before. 
There are those who sigh to let me make a for- 
tune, so they get me 
Gilt-edged bargains which they sell to me at 
par, — 
Oh, my gentle lords and ladies, I possess the key 
to Hades, 
If you miss them, can't you fancy where they 
are ? 

114 



MARY O'MALLEY 

Tk/r ARY O'MALLEY lives down in our alley, 

Up-stairs, in the rear of a flat, 
With her father and mother, her sister and brother, 

A parrot, two dogs, and a cat. 
Her face is a posy, her cheeks are so rosy. 

Her mouth is like honey and dew ; 
Your heart 's in a shiver, your lips in a quiver. 

When Mary is looking at you. 

O me ! O my ! O Mary O'Malley ! 

The neighbors all know you 're the pride of the 

alley ! 
You 're fair as a dream, you 're peaches and cream, 
You 're sweeter than clover, a thousand times 

over ! 
And would you but marry, — you dear little 

fairy ! — 

Is it single I 'd tarry ? 
Nay, nary ! 

115 



Mary O'Malley 

The first time I met her — how can I forget 
her ! — 

She was bringing a basket of clothes ; 
I looked at her sweetly, she spurned me completely, 

And turned up her beautiful nose. 
She 's cunningly saucy and very criss-crossy 

And stubborn, yet once in awhile 
Your heart gaily dances because her sweet glances 

Have wrapped you all up in a smile. 

O me ! O my ! O Mary O'Malley ! 

Your glance is the light and the life of our alley ! 

You 're better than gold to have and to hold ! 

Be done with your teasing, your melting and 

freezing : 
Oh, could I possess you, I 'd feed you and dress you 
And love and caress you, 
God bless you ! 



ii6 



"TO KNOW ALL IS TO FORGIVE ALL^' 

T F I knew you and you knew me — 

If both of us could clearly see, 
And with an inner sight divine 
The meaning of your heart and mine, 
I 'm sure that we would differ less 
And clasp our hands in friendliness ; 
Our thoughts would pleasantly agree 
If I knew you and you knew me. 

If I knew you and you knew me, 

As each one knows his own self, we 

Could look each other in the face 

And see therein a truer grace. 

Life has so many hidden woes, 

So many thorns for every rose ; 

The "why " of things our hearts would see, 

If I "knew you and you knew me. 



117 



POTPOURRI 

'HE sea's a turbulent affair 
And full of froth and bubble, 
Yet even if it were not there 

We still should have our trouble. 
For think to what sad straits we 'd come 

Without the sea, my brother, — 
How could we ever travel from 
One island to another ? 

"I'm greatly disappointed," said the cynic, "for 
you see 

This world was all created without once consult- 
ing me ! 

It may be right in some respects, but still I greatly 
doubt it, 

And so I 'm going to growl and growl and growl 
and growl about it." 

Some mean "old maid," without a doubt, 

Who never tasted bliss, 
Was first to start that scare about 

The microbes in a kiss. 
n8 



Potpourri 

When Johnny's mamma calls to him 

And tells him, Johnny, dear, 
It's time to rise ! " it SOUnds SO dim 

It takes a week to hear ; 
But Johnny 's up and says his prayers 

And has his clothes most on 
One minute after, up the stairs, 

His father utters, "JOHNI'» 

Oh, the poet, he loved with a deep, deep love. 

As he pleaded on bended knee ; 
His dream was as fair as a white, white dove. 

But cold as the snow was she. 
And alas and alack, and some things like those ! 

His heart it was sadly rent 
By the girl he had said was his red, red rose, 

'Cause he had n't a red, red cent. 

Speak no evil of the absent for 

We never know, alack ! 
Just when the slandered may appear 

And make us take it back. 



119 



A ^' FIRST EDITION" 

A STARVING author wrote a book, 

With highest thought inspired ; 
But publishers to whom he took 

His manuscript inquired, 
" Is this your first ? " and when he *d make 

Affirmative admission. 
They 'd say, " Our means we dare not stake 
Upon a first edition." 

The author borrowed type enough 

To print the book he 'd written, 
But overwork and cold rebuff 

His flame of life had smitten. 
Would that he were alive to-day 

To see his toil's fruition, 
For oh, what princely sums we pay 

To get that " first edition." 



I20 



THE POOR MAN'S THANKSGIVING 

X^rE thank thee, Lord, that thou hast sent afflic- 
tion to the rich ; 
Dyspepsia, gout, insomnia, and other troubles 

which 
Disturb their souls by day and night and cause as 

much or more 
Of real distress than do the ills that thou hast 

sent the poor. 

We may not have enough to eat — they eat too 

much and, so, 
It 's just about an even thing which hath the most 

of woe. 
We have no time to rest by day — they cannot 

rest at night. 
So, all in all, it seemeth things are pretty nearly 

right. 

We can't afford to ride, but there, again, their joy 

we balk. 
For, oh ! thou sendest them the gout, and so they 

cannot walk. 

121 



The Poor Man's Thanksgiving 

Thou sendest them rich food and drink, weak 

stomachs, headaches, wealth ; 
To us thou sendest poverty, plain living, toil, and 

health. 

Oh, glad are we the rich must have, while living 

off the best 
The land affords, a lot of things to rob them of 

their rest. 
And so we 're thankful for our joys, a goodly part 

of which 
Is thinking of the many woes thou sendest to the 

rich. 



122 



A BOY'S VACATION 

T ITTLE Tommy Doodle and his mother spent 

a week 
At Gran'pa Doodle's farm, where Tommy tumbled 

in the creek 
And got his lungs so full of wet he could n't get 

his breath 
Till poor old Gran 'ma Doodle had been frightened 

'most to death. 

He ate some poison berries that he found along 

the lane : 
It took a doctor half the night to soothe away the 

pain. 
He tried to ride a " kicky " colt — a risky thing 

to do — 
'T was quite a little while before they really brought 

him to. 

He stuck a stick into a hive of bees — oh, sorry 

day ! 
He could n't see a thing until the swelling went 

away. 

123 



A Boy's Vacation 

He teased the goat to see if it was cross as he had 

heard : 
They had to work with him awhile before he 

spoke a word. 

And then he climbed a cherry-tree — just like a 

boy — and fell 
And broke his arm, and — sakes alive ! you ought 

'a' heard him yell. 
His mother took him back to town to get a little 

rest, 
But Tommy says of all his life that week was far 

the best. 



124 



THE JOURNALISTIC LAUREATE 

TTT'HO is it makes the wheels go round and 

keeps the paper going ? 
Who is it makes the ghost to walk, her golden 

gifts bestowing ? 
Who is it fills the busy hive with happiness and 

honey ? 
Who keeps the publisher alive and lines his purse 

with money ? 

Oh, think you 't is the poet who his measured line 
rehearses ? 

Ah, no ! he could n't feed a cat on all he gets for 
verses. 

Oh, think you 't is the writers of the essay and the 
story ? 

No, such as they could never make a paper hunky- 
dory. 

Alas ! ye writers grave and gay, ye funny men and 

solemn, 
Who seem to love to spread yourselves o'er column 

after column, 

125 



The Journalistic Laureate 

'T were well for you to bear in mind, ye namby- 
pamby quillers, 

That all the stuff you ever pen is simply used for 
** fillers." 

But, oh ! there is a fellow who has things to suit 

his notion. 
An " Ode to Spring " he crowds right out with 

** Lumper's Lilac Lotion " ; 
The publisher who pays the freight, your lofty 

themes despising, 
Bows down before this mighty man who brings 

him advertising. 

And so, good writers, one and all, if 't is your 
lofty mission 

To see your stuff in big, bold type and a "pre- 
ferred position," 

If you would have your happy share of all the 
gold that glitters. 

Why, hustle out and get an ad. for " Buster's Bur- 
dock Bitters." 



126 



GOOD TOSTLE PAUL 

/^H, I done read de Good Book, cl'ar plum' 
through 

An*, I tells you, hit 's a mighty fine story ; 
I 's fahmiliar with de Gospels, oV an' new, 

An' 'low I 's a-walkin' in de glory. 
I like fo' to read 'bout de blessed Holy Ghos', 

An' de saints an' de mahacles an' veesions. 
But de part ob de Book dat I likes de mos' 

Is where Paul p'ints his 'pistle at de 'Phesians. 

When I looks down deep in mah po' ol' heart, 

I wondah ef de Lo'd kin evah like me ! 
'Pears like de lightnin' 's gwine ter send a dart 

Out ob de thundah-cloud ter strike me. 
But I knows ef we 's good an' does what 's right, 

De great Judge is kin' in his deceesions, 
An' I turns to de Book an' I gits mah light 

Where Paul p'ints his 'pistle at de 'Phesians. 

Ef yo' faith 's kinder shaky an' you don' jes' know 
Ef yo' feet is on de rock or in de mire, 

'Postle Paul kin tell you de way you orter go 
Fo' to keep you from gittin' in de fire. 

127 



Good Tostle Paul 

You kin slip by Satan ez slick ez a dart, 

An' you won't hev no wrecks er no colleesions, 

Ef you read de Good Book till you git it all by 
heart, 
Where Paul p'ints his 'pistle at de 'Phesians. 



128 



OUR THOUGHTLESS WRONGS 

T IFE'S trials we could soften 

If we 'd only pause and think ; 
Tears would not flow so often 

If we 'd only pause and think. 
Our skies would all be brighter, 
Our burdens would be lighter, 
Our deeds would all be whiter 

If we 'd only pause and think. 

We would not walk so blindly 
If we 'd only pause and think ; 

We would not speak unkindly 
If we 'd only pause and think. 

Unrest we would not borrow. 

Darkly clouding each to-morrow ; 

We could banish worlds of sorrow 
If we 'd only pause and think. 



129 



THIS SORRY WORLD 

T OTS o' folks a-wearin' mourn in' ; some folks 

puts it on their hat ; 
Others have a secret sorrer hid away too deep fer 

that. 
Some remind us o' their troubles with a lot o' 

gloomy clo'es, 
While there 's some that mourns unheeded by a 

grave nobody knows. 

There is funerals occurrin* all about lis every day, 
Where the heart o' man er woman lays a tender 

hope away. 
There is faces that is smilin', there is lips that 

laugh an' jest 
With a wish as dear as heaven buried deep inside 

the breast. 

Love an* doubt an' joy an' sorrer come so sort 

o' tangled up, 
Can't guess if yer next-door neighbor's is a sweet 

er bitter cup. 

130 



This Sorry World 

Why a man is glad er gloomy — say, it 's pretty 

hard to tell ; 
You may think he 's got a picnic when he 's at 

a funeral. 

So if you should meet a feller with the sunshine 

on his lips, 
Don't unfold yer cloud o' trouble like a terrible 

eclipse. 
Though he may be bright an' cheerful he has grief 

an' sorrer too. 
Only he 's too kind an* thoughtful fer to dump it on 

to you. 



131 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS 

npHERE 'S no excuse for family jars; 
'T is selfishness our pleasure mars. 
The wife insists on this or that, 
The husband differs — then a spat — 
A fickle, foolish falling out — 
Some words, some tears, a little pout. 
Because they have not learned to share 
Each other's wishes, and forbear. 

My wife and I a plan devised 
Whereby all points are compromised ; 
Though differences arise, with us, 
We settle them without a fuss. 
And how much better 't is to find 
One to the other's views resigned ; 
It matters not what I may say. 
We compromise — she has her way. 



132 



WHEN MOTHER CUT MY HAIR 

T 'VE been down to a barber shop, the first dod- 

gasted one 
I 've tackled since I 've been in town a-visitin' my 

son. 
They trimmed my hair an' twisted it an' plastered 

an' shampooed 
Until they 've made me look 'bout hke a reg'lar 

bloomin' dude. 
An' as I set a-thinkin', with the apron round my 

chin, 
My recollections got to sort o' runnin' back ag'in 
To long afore I knowed the world had such a thing 

as care, 
When I was jest a little tyke an' mother cut my 

hair. 

When mother done the cuttin', why, she done it as 

she ort ; 
An' never used to ask me if I 'd have it long er 

short. 
She slipped my head into a crock, an' then she 

grabbed her shears 

^33 



When Mother Cut My Hair 

An' cut my hair off even on a level with my ears. 
There was n't any sea-foam an' a lot o' tryin' stuff 
To make a feller weary when he knows he 's got 

enough, 
Ner no bay rum ner brilliantine ner easy sofa 

chair, 
Fer which I had to settle when my mother cut 

my hair. 

I s'pose that I 'm old-fashioned-like an' sort of out- 

o'-date ; 
I wa* n't born soon enough, er else I 'm hangin' on 

too late. 
But somehow these new-fangled ways the people 

now invent, 
I figger, as the feller says, don't hit me worth 

a cent. 
Fer down in that big barber shop, with all its fuss 

an' frills. 
An' all the fancy-smellin' things the mind o' man 

distils, 
I wished the goose grease she put on, an' bergy- 

mont was there. 
An' I was jest a little boy with ma to cut my hair. 



134 



UNCLE JOSHUA'S EXPERIENCE 

'T^HEY have the blamedest fixin's that a feller 

ever see 
In them big cities nowadays, they sort o' puzzle 

me ; 
The last time that I went to town I stayed all 

night — that 's how 
I happened fer to figger in a lively sort o' row. 
I 'd walked about the hull day long on them there 

pavin'-stones, 
An' when night come I wanted fer to rest my 

weary bones, 
An' so I bought a hotel bed away up next the sky, 
But say ! the price I paid fer it was 'bout three 

times as high. 

I never would 'a' dreamed that men would dare to 

charge so steep 
Fer jest such common blessin's, but I had to have 

some sleep 
An' so I stayed, but told 'em it was all a put-up 

job 
Arranged by tavern-keepers in the city fer to rob 

135 



Uncle Joshua's Experience 

Us fellers from the country. An' they knowed 

't was truth they heard, 
Fer though they winked an' blinked a lot they 

never said a word, 
But elevatored me to where I had to spend the 

night, 
An' right there 's when I had my fun a-puttin' out 

the light. 

That light was 'bout the queerest thing that ever 
I explored : 

It looked jest like a blazin' star a-hangin' to a 
cord 

That did n't 'pear no bigger than a piece o' cotton 
thread. 

An' fastened to some fixin' in the ceilin' over- 
head. 

I 'd never seen the like afore, but still I thought I 
knowed 

The way to put a light out, so I blowed an' blowed 
an' blowed, 

An' worked about an hour with the blamed, in- 
fernal thing 

Till I got out o' patience an' declared I 'd cut the 
string. 

136 



Uncle Joshua's Experience 

Oh, sufferin' saints an' sinners ! I can't tell you 

how it was, 
But some bone-jarrin' feelin' went right through 

me with a buzz, 
An' I 'd 'a' bet a dollar I was dead as sure as 

sin, — 
I never would 'a' guessed that I 'd be talkin' here 

ag'in. 
But after while, when I come to, I crept out in 

the hall 
An' yelled ten times as loud, I guess, as any cow 

can bawl ; 
Folks come a-rushin' up an' asked, *' What 's all 

the fuss about ? " 
An' when I told 'em they jest laughed an' put the 

blamed light out. 



137 



A WINTER MORN 

A WINTER morn : The snow lies white, 
Earth's garment, woven in the night. 
Above the purple, wooded hills 
The sun steals up and softly spills 
Adown the vale his golden light. 

Like phantoms of the azure height 
Frail cloud-forms in their filmy flight 
Seem gazing on the grace that fills 
A winter morn. 

Athwart the land in vesture bright 
The river seeks its course to write. 

Hushed are the brooks whose vernal trills 

Shall wake the golden daffodils 
To happy fields that now invite 
A winter morn. 



138 



" COCK - A - DOODLE - DOO ! " 

T 'VE been down to the city fer a visit with my 

son ; 
He 's into business fer himself an' gittin' rich Uke 

fun. 
He 's got the blamedest schemes I ever see fer 

coinin' cash, 
An' yit, some day, he says, he may be bu'sted all 

to smash. 
I like to visit with 'em, but they stay up half the 

night. 
An' in the mornin' lie abed long after it is light ; 
But when I 'm there it 's hard to tell when day- 
break comes, you know, 
Fer, listen fer a month, you 'd never hear a rooster 

crow. 

Cock-a-doodle-doo I Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 
The bramer with his loud, shrill voice, the domi- 

niquer, too ; 
The little banty tenor an' the shanghai fierce an' 

slow — 
I can tell the mornin' 's comin' when I hear the 

roosters crow. 

Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 

139 



" Cock-a-Doodle-Doo ! " 

I 'd hate to have to live in town an* stay there all 

the while, 
An' hardly ever see a thing but jest mile after 

mile 
O' brick an' stone, an' narrer streets, an' people 

night and day 
All actin' like they 're crazy an' a-pushin* every 

way. 
It 's well enough to visit there a little while, an' 

then 
I 'm allers mighty anxious fer to git back home 

again, 
Where everybody takes their time to talk an' laugh 

an' grow 
An' eat their meals an' sleep an' wake an' hear the 

roosters crow. 

Cock-a-doodle-doo ! Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 
The bramer with his loud, shrill voice, the domi- 

niquer, too ; 
The little banty tenor an' the shanghai fierce an* 

slow — 
I can tell the mornin' 's comin' when I hear the 

roosters crow. 

Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 



140 



'' Cock-a-Doodle-Doo ! " 

I like to have a lot o* room where I can stir about 
Permisc'ous like. I hate to be ferever lookin' out. 
But when you're in the city streets the people is 

so thick 
A man can't hardly step without some one '11 up 

an' kick. 
But out here in the country we can freely knock 

around, 
With lots an' lots of air an' sun an' sky an' trees 

an' ground ; 
An' when the shadders come at night an' work is 

done, we go 
To bed an' soundly sleep until we hear the roos- 
ters crow. 

Cock-a-doodle-doo ! Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 
The bramer with his loud, shrill voice, the domi- 

niquer, too ; 
The little banty tenor an' the shanghai fierce an' 

slow — 
I can tell the mornin' 's comin* when I hear the 

roosters crow. 

Cock-a-doodle-doo I 

The robin's" song is mighty nice when first it tries 
to sing 

141 



« Cock-a-Doodle-Doo ! " 

Along with bluebirds an* the rest about the comin' 

spring ; 
An' thrushes, too, are hard to beat — I like to 

hear 'em trill. 
An' nothin' could be sweeter than the sorry whip- 
poor-will. 
But I believe that, after all, among the feathered 

host, 
The voice, if stilled ferever, I should really miss 

the most 
Is jest the common barn-yard fowl's — some 

folks '11 laugh, I know, — 
But, anyhow, it pleases me to hear the roosters 

crow. 

Cock-a-doodle-doo ! Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 
The bramer with his loud, shrill voice, the domi- 

niquer, too; 
The little banty tenor an' the shanghai fierce and 

slow — 
I can tell the mornin' 's comin' when I hear the 

roosters crow. 

Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 



142 



THE AVERAGE MAN 

OOME days I am so very good and do such gra- 
cious things 
I feel my shoulders just to see if I have sprouted 

wings. 
At other times my wrongful ways deserve such 

stern reproof 
I really half expect to see I 've grown a cloven 

hoof. 
And thus I oscillate between the righteous and 

the wrong, 
Not really certain of the class to which I should 

belong. 
Sometimes I walk arightly and at other times I 

limp ; 
I 'm never really sure if I 'm an angel or an imp. 

I wonder if the pious man has fleeting moments 

when 
He 'd like to just cut loose awhile and then get 

good again. 
I wonder if the sinner has his seasons of restraint 
That make him for the moment wish he might 

become a saint. 

143 



The Average Man 

Alas ! how many mortals are a tangled half and 

half, 
In part made up of golden grain, in part of wicked 

chaff. 
Oh, could we read them through and through, I 

wonder if we 'd find 
In each of them an angel's wing and devil's hoof 

combined ! 



144 



THE "WHY -DID NT -YOU?" MAN 

OINCE the world first began, the " Why-Did n't- 
You ? " man 

Has ever been waiting around 
To give, without price, countless words of advice 

From the depths of his wisdom profound. 
But whatever you do he will wait till you 're through, 

Then point out some wonderful plan 
That you might have pursued to great riches if 
you 'd 

Have asked the " Why-Did n't- You ? " man. 

He has n't a cent, for his whole life is spent 

In telling folks where they were wrong, 
And though wealth they secure while he yet 
remains poor. 
Still he 's willing to help them along. 
Plain rules he can state to get rich while you wait. 

But he borrows a dime where he can. 
While the whole world is told that it might have 
had gold. 
By the ragged " Why-Did n't- You ? " man. 

145 



The " Why-Did n't- You ? " Man 

And day after day his one joy is to say 

*' Why didn't you ?" this thing or that, 
Deep wisdom he quotes and our errors he notes, 

For he seems to have all of them pat. 
When first he was told that this earth we behold, 

God took but six days to contrive. 
For a moment he thought, then this question he 
brought, 

" Why did n't he make it in five ? '* 



146 



THE STUFFED LITTLE BOY 

/^H, sad is the fate of the poor little boy 
Who has no one to teach him to read, 
And who never may look 'tween the leaves of a 
book, 
But is left to grow up " like a weed.'* 
Still his fortune is not quite the worst of the lot, 

But is more like a picture of joy 
When his very small share of distress we compare 
With the woes of the stuffed little boy. 

Oh, the stuffed little boy is a wonderful boy, 

He 's so very precocious and bright ; 
He has tutors and teachers, blind, misguided crea- 
tures, 

Who stuff him from morning till night. 
And this marvelous youth, still a baby, in truth. 

By this wonderful brain-cramming plan 
Has such wisdom acquired he is almost as tired 

As if he were truly a man. 

While he ought to be laughing in innocent play. 

This poor little fellow must glean 
The wisdom of books till wherever he looks 

There is nothing hut facU to be seen. 

147 



The StufFed Little Boy 

While the other boys run in the wind and the sun, 

He is fed upon science and art, 
Till we find him at ten with the learning of men, 

But with never a dream in his heart. 

It is good that the year when the springtime is 
here 

Does not jump all at once into June. 
The sweet morning hours, with dew on the flowers. 

Lead tenderly up to the noon. 
Let the little ones play 'mid the blossoms of May 

And with never a book to annoy, 
For there 's nothing so sad in this world, or so 
bad, 

As the fate of the stuffed little boy. 



148 



THE POET'S LAMENT 

OMALL wonder 't is we poets of this prosy age 

regret 
That themes on which to found our lines are now 

so hard to get. 
Those dear old subjects which for years employed 

the Muse's pen 
Have all been sadly crowded out ne'er to come 

back again. 

The weary plowman never more shall homeward 

plod his way, 
He rides a sulky-like affair, and takes his ease 

to-day. 
The sower, scattering the seeds, not now afield is 

seen, 
For that, like scores of other tasks, is done by a 

machine. 

No more the mower swings his scythe, 't is rusting 

in the shed ; 
The hired man now drives a team that does the 

work instead. 

149 



The Poet's Lament 

The merry cradlers of the grain are gone, we know 

not where ; 
Their labors they surrendered to a patent-right 

affair. 

The jolly thresher with his flail upon the old barn's 

floor, 
He, too, has left the country, since his usefulness 

is o'er ; 
With others he was pushed aside and forced to 

clear the way 
For mechanism dull and dry that rules the world 

to-day. 

The busy loom and spinning-wheel, which maidens 

plied with art. 
Have gone and left us naught to play their once 

poetic part. 
Stern realism rules the age from cradle to the 

grave. 
There 's nothing left concerning which the poet's 

mind may rave. 

The sparkling mountain spring at which 't was joy 
to drink, alas ! 

150 



The Poet's Lament 

Has now been piped, we get it from a faucet made 

of brass. 
And e'en the horse, man's noblest friend, is fading 

fast away ; 
The automobile's '* chuff, chuff, chuff," we fear 

has come to stay. 

And now since all our tasks are done by artificial 
force. 

Toil, as a poet's noble theme, is out of date, of 
course. 

Whichever way we turn there 's naught but mechan- 
ism seen. 

And some assert that lines like these are made by 
a machine. 



151 



GO RIGHT ON WORKING 

yi H, yes ! the task is hard, 't is true, 
But what 's the use of sighing ? 
They 're soonest with their duties through 

Who bravely keep on trying. 
There 's no advantage to be found 

In sorrowing or shirking, 
They with success are soonest crowned 
Who just go right on working. 

Strive patiently and with a will 

That shall not be defeated ; 
Keep singing at your task until 

You see it stand completed. 
Nor let the clouds of doubt draw near 

Your sky's glad sunshine murking ; 
Be brave and fill your heart with cheer 

And just go right on working. 



152 



FAREWELL TO ROBIN 

"C^ARE thee well — the breeze is sighing- 
Farewell, Robin, southward flying ; 
Long and long — 
Now you leave me — must be saddened 
All my grove that you have gladdened 
With your song. 

Every southward- flitting feather 
Steals a glint of golden weather 

From my skies ; 
And when fields no longer harken 
To your notes, they dim and darken ; 

Beauty dies. 

'T was you brought me — blithesome rover 
Lily bells and bloom of clover 

Sweet with dew ; 
But, since 't is your carols wake them, 
So where'er you go you take them 

All with you. 
153 



Farewell to Robin 

Through gray winter's gloom and grieving 
In my heart hope will be weaving 

Dreams of spring, 
When, the year's first joyous comer, 
You will bring me back my summer 

On your wing. 



154 



SHREDS AND PATCHES 

'T^HOUGH life is made up of mere bubbles, 

'Tis better than many aver, 
For while we 've a whole lot of troubles, 
The most of them never occur. 

Life is a grind : a sorry few 

Are blunted in their aim. 
And some are sharpened keen and true, 

And carve their way to fame. 

The heaven-seekers who know just how 
Can almost find it here and now. 

'T were better to send a cheap bouquet 
To a living friend this very day, 
Than a bushel of roses, white and red. 
To lay on his coffin when he 's dead. 

Oh, brothers ! are you asking how 
The hills of happiness to find ? 
Then know they lie beyond this vow — 
" God helping me, I will be kind ! " 
155 



Shreds and Patches 

If you would pen some line that men 
Would always deem as clever, 

Oh, mix your ink with so much think 
That it must last forever. 

The mind is master of the man, 

And so "they can who think they can." 

Don't think your lot the worst because 
Some griefs your joy assail ; 

There are n't so very many saws 
That never strike a nail. 

The way is never very long 

If measured with a smile and song. 

The soul contains a window where 
It may receive the sun and air, 
But some with self the window cloy 
And shut out all the light and joy. 

Give but a smile to sorry men 
They '11 give you twenty back again. 
156 



THE CUCKOO CLOCK 



'PBENEZER BILLINGS called on Angelina 

Brown, 
And stayed and stayed and stayed until her face 

was in a frown. 
She fidgeted and looked fatigued and yawned be- 
hind her hand, 
But Ebenezer Billings did n't seem to understand. 
He said about three thousand things of no account 

and then 
He blandly smiled and started in to say them all 

again, 
When Angelina's cuckoo clock upon the mantel 

near, 
It lifted up its voice and said ten times in Bil- 
lings' ear — 

" Br-r-r cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, 
cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, 
cuck-oo, cuck-oo ! " 

But Ebenezer never flinched ; he waited till the 

bird 
Was done with its cuckooing, when he did n't say 

a word 

157 



The Cuckoo Clock 

About how late 't was growing, but he just kept 

talking on 
As if he meant to talk until the coming of the 

dawn. 
Poor Angelina ! How she wished that he would 

go away ; 
She knew her pa would raise a fuss because she 

let him stay. 
Eleven came, and then the clock, still faithful to 

its trust, 
It yelled as if it firmly meant to make him go or 

bu'st — 

"Br-r-r cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, 
cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, 
cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo ! " 

However, Mr. Billings did not mind the clock a bit. 

But talked till Angelina — oh, she nearly had a fit. 

She knew her father listened in the chamber over- 
head. 

And thoughts of what might happen filled her 
very soul with dread. 

She yawned, and in a way that meant 't was grow- 
ing very late. 

Yet Ebenezer talked right on, unmindful of his fate, 

iS8 



The Cuckoo Clock 

Till midnight came, and then the clock, it sort of 

cleared its throat, 
And looking straight in Billings' eye it fairly 
shrieked each note — 

" Br-r-r-r cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, 
cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, 
cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo ! " 

Then Ebenezer roused himself and started for the 

door. 
But halted ere he reached it just to whisper one 

word more. 
And there he stood and talked and talked till 

Angelina, she — 
'T was awful ! — but she wished him at the bottom 

of the sea ! 
And then — her pa appeared and brought his 

number 'leven feet. 
Poor Mr. Billings landed in the middle of the street, 
And as he rose and brushed his clothes and slowly 

limped away 
He heard the little cuckoo clock call after him 

and say — 

" Br-r-r-r cuck-oo ! " 



159 



A COMPROMISE 

V^ZITH all my heart I loved Marie 

And asked her, " Will you marry me ? 
" Of all mankind," said she, in mirth, 
" I would not wed the best on earth ! " 

Her words, I deemed, meant my defeat ; 
I sighed ; she smiled. " Oh, what conceit ! " 
Said she : " Of men both great and small 
Are you the very best of all ? " 

Then did I all my love confess, 
Forgetting my unworthiness. 
I 'm glad earth's best she would not wed ; 
She 's going to marry me instead. 



i6o 



IF WE DIDN'T HAVE TO EAT 

T IFE would be an easy matter 
If we did n't have to eat. 
If we never had to utter, 
" Won't you pass the bread and butter, 
Likewise push along that platter 
Full of meat ? " 
Yes, if food were obsolete 
Life would be a jolly treat. 
If we did n't — shine or shower, 
Old or young, 'bout every hour — 
Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, — 
'T would be jolly if we did n't have to eat. 

We could save a lot of money. 
If we did n*t have to eat. 

Could we cease our busy buying, 
Baking, broiling, brewing, frying. 
Life would then be oh, so sunny 
And complete ; 

And we would n't fear to greet 
Every grocer in the street 
i6i 



If We Did n't Have to Eat 

If we did n't — man and woman, 

Every hungry, helpless human, — 
Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, — 
We 'd save money if we did n't have to eat. 

All our worry would be over 

If we did n't have to eat. 

Would the butcher, baker, grocer 
Get our hard-earned dollars ? No, sir ! 
We would then be right in clover 

Cool and sweet. 

Want and hunger we could cheat, 

And our bills we 'd promptly meet 
If we did n't — poor or wealthy, 
Halt or nimble, sick or healthy — 

Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, 

We could get there if we did n't have to eat. 



162 



A THANKFUL PARSON 

A PIOUS parson, good and true, 
Was crossing o'er the seas 
When suddenly there fiercely blew 

A wild and sweeping breeze. 
He feared the storm the ship would wreck, 

His heart was sore afraid ; 
He sought the captain on the deck, 
But found him undismayed. 

The captain saw the parson's fear, 

And led him up to where 
The servant of the Lord could hear 

The sailors loudly swear. 
"You clearly see," the captain said, 

" If danger hovered nigh 
They *d all be on their knees instead. 

And asking grace to die." 

The parson felt his words were true. 

And when the skies grew fair 
He marveled how the sailors knew 

Just when to pray or swear. 
163 



A Thankful Parson 

But when the wildly tossing sea 
Had ceased to plunge and spout, 

Unto himself he said, " I see 

They know what they 're about." 

But later on another storm 

Came fiercer than before. 
The parson heard, in wild alarm, 

The ocean's angry roar. 
He sought the deck in awful dread 

The sailors, near, to get ; 
He listened — then he bowed his head, 

" Thank God, they 're swearing yet ! ' 



164 



WHEN A MAN 'S IN LOVE 

T IFE 'S a jolly jag of joy- 
When a man 's in love. 
He 's as happy and as coy 

As a turtle-dove. 
All the world is fair and nice 
And as sweet as Paradise ; 
Everything 's worth twice the price 

When a man 's in love. 

Life 's a big bouquet of bliss 

When a man 's in love. 
Earth is yearning just to kiss 

With the stars above. 
Then her smile is all there is 
In the world, excepting his ; 
Say ! It 's something great, gee whiz ! 

When a man 's in love. 

Life 's a mellow mess of mirth 

When a man 's in love. 
Heaven comes to dwell with earth 

Walking hand and glove. 
i6s 



When a Man s in Love 

Then all creatures, low and high, 
Putting other duties by, 
Just lay off to watch the guy 
When a man 's in love. 



i66 



FOLKS WE READ ABOUT 

'THHERE seems to be no way in which an hon- 
est, modest man 
Can get his name in clear, cold type for everyone 

to scan. 
We 've got to cut up some mean trick, or papers 

quite refuse 
To notice what we 're doing, for they say it is n't 

" news." 

A man may kiss his wife and yet the papers never 

tell; 
But let him kiss his neighbor's wife and how the 

types will yell ! 
We may do just the proper thing for years and 

years, and yet 
Receive not half the notice that one crooked chap 

will get. 

Just let an honest citizen be sober as he may. 
There are no headlines to declare, " Jones is n't 

drunk to-day ! " 
But let a man imbibe until he makes himself "a 

brute," 
And all the papers will exclaim, ** Old Jinks is on 

a toot ! " 

167 



Folks We Read About 

A thousand bank cashiers remain still faithful to 

their trust, 
Too kind to flee to Canada and cause their banks 

to ''bu'st," 
Yet papers never tell us of these noble men and 

true, 
But give whole columns to the ones who skip the 

tra-la-loo. 



Ten thousand servant - girls refrain from using 

kerosene 
To start the kitchen fire, even if the wood is 

green, 
But just because one tries it and is scattered 

galley-west, 
Her name gets in the papers far ahead of all the 

rest. 

So, when I buy a paper, I *m aware I '11 find a 

dearth 
Of news about the doings of the better folks of 

earth ; 
For " news," as it is termed to-day, I 've noticed, as 

a rule. 
Is very likely to concern a rascal or a fool. 

i68 



ONE OF THE HAS-BEENS 

TF Shakespeare were alive to-day, 

Alas ! he 'd not be in it ; 
He could n't make his writings pay 

For just a single minute. 
He 'd meet the coldest kind of bluff 

From every one-horse paper, 
For though he used to write good stuff 

Just now he 's not the caper. 

I know, because I 've written much, 

Like '' Hamlet," only better, 
And given it my finished touch 

In every line and letter ; 
But still the editors rebel. 

And each my work dismisses ; 
For nothing nowadays will sell 

But jingles such as this is. 

And, say ! 1 Ve so much heart I 'd hate 

To see Will on his uppers. 
The while we writers, up to date. 

Would feast on wine-washed suppers. 
169 



One of the Has - Beens 

I could not find such rare delights 
Amid my wealth disporting, 

While Will would have to go on nights 
And do police reporting. 



170 



REGARDIN' HOSS-TRADIN' 

XIW'ELL, yes, you take it first an' last, I s'pose 
I 've made it pay 

A-tradin' bosses ; anyhow, that 's what the neigh- 
bors say ; 

They've kind o' got a notion that if I jest git 
a look 

At any sort o' boss-flesh I can read it like a book. 

An' on the other hand they think that if a boss is 
mine, 

No matter how played out be is, I make him look 
that fine 

His mother would n't know him, but, right here, 
'twixt me an' you, 

The man don't live but what some boss can teach 
him somethin' new. 

A boss is that deceivin' that I don't pertend to 

know 
His kinks till I 've perused him fer at least a month 

er so ; 
He 's got a lot o' differ'nt ways, er so it seems 

to me, 

171 



Regardin' Hoss - Tradin' 

O' teachin* us we ain't so smart as what we think 

we be. 
Before you trade you try him an' you test him, 

wind an' limb, 
An' do yer best you can't find out a thing that 's 

wrong with him, 
But once the trade is settled, then — an' don't it 

make you hot ? — 
He jogs yer mind with somethin' that you should n't 

have fergot. 

They say in tradin' bosses that there ain't a man 

so high 
An' pure an' true an' noble-like, but what he '11 

tell a lie ; 
But when you speak o' liars, why, from what I can 

recall, 
I take the hoss himself to be the biggest one 

of all ; 
Fer don't he do his level best in every way he can 
To supplement the wicked words o' some designin' 

man ? 
A human bein' ain't persumed to stick to what is 

true. 
But when a hoss will act a lie, say, what 's a man 

to do ? 

172 



Regardin' Hoss - Tradin' 

Now what I 'm gittin' at is this ; a hoss, if he finds 

out 
You think o' tradin' fer him, will let on he 's fresh 

an' stout 
An' speedy-like an' willin', an' so good from top 

to toe, 
He '11 make you give a lot to boot before you '11 let 

him go. 
But when he 's yours, well, say, by George ! the 

way that hoss lets down 
Until he looks to be about the worst old nag in 

town : 
He '11 balk an' bite an' run away an' bring you such 

distress 
That could you cheat somebody, would you do it ? 

Well, I guess ! 

At first, the ottymobile — this new-fangled thing 

they 've got 
Fer doin' 'way with bosses — sort o' troubled me 

a lot ; 
But since I 'm gittin' on in years an' hain't got 

long to stay, 
Now that the hoss is goin' I '11 be glad to get away. 
I 've traded bosses all my life, an' 't would n't seem 

jest right 

173 



Regardin' Hoss - Tradin' 

To jog along the highway an' not see a trade in 

sight. 
But there 's one thing I would n't do fer any mortal 

price — 
That 's trade the heaven-sent hoss fer their blamed 

fact'ry-made device. 



174 



DEACON HOPEFUL'S IDEE 

T^EAR friends, when I am dead an* gone 

Don't have no woful takin's on ; 
Don't act so tarnally bereft 
As if there wa' n't no sunshine left. 
Don't multiply yer stock o' woes 
By sorry looks an' gloomy clo'es, 
An' make the trouble ten times worse 
By allers follerin' a hearse. 

When I depart, it 's my idee 
The most consolin' thing to me, 
Would be to hear the ones I tried 
To comfort here afore I died 
Say, sort o' smilin' through their tears, 
" Well, anyhow, fer years an' years 
We had him here, so let 's be glad 
An' thankful fer the joy we've had." 

It ain't no use to make a fuss 
When death comes after one of us ; 
The ways o' Providence, I 'low. 
Are as they should be, anyhow. 

175 



Deacon Hopeful's Idee 

Things suit me purty middlin' well, 

An* even at a funeral 

I 'd sing, amid the grief an' woe, 

" Praise God from whom all blessin's flow." 



176 



MELON SONG 

/^H, I tol' mah Honey, an' she tol' me — 

I leaned right close to her ear — 
An' she hung her head, but what we said, 

I ain't a-gwine ter tell right here. 
Steal along, steal along ; ever' body feel along, 

Melons jes' a-crackin' at de core; 
Lif yer foot ez light ez de fox in de night, 

An' dey won't be a-crackin' any more. 

Husky hush I De opossum ' s in de ' simmon-tree ; 

Hushy httsh ! De coon is in de cawn : 
De rabbit aint a-peepin' an de mockin -bird's 
a-sleepin\ 

And we aint a-gwine home till de mawn. 

Oh, I love mah Honey, an' she loves me ; 

She 's got a pizen tickle in her eye. 
She 's fair an' sweet from head to feet. 

An' we 're gwine ter build a home bime-by. 
Slip along, slip along ; ever' body trip along. 

Melons am a-lookin' mighty fine ; 
We 're gwine fo' to feast till it 's light in de east. 

An' we won't leave a melon on de vine. 

177 



Melon Song 

Oh, I kissed mah Honey an' she kissed me, — 

Nobody lookin' fo' to tell, — 
One, two, three, four, — yes, yes, — lots more ! 

Fo' we both like de kisses mighty well. 
Glide along, glide along ; ever'body slide along ; 

Bettah keep a-lookin' fo' a gun ; 
When yo' hear me whistle low an' long, jes' so- 
(whistle) 

It 's a warnin' 'at it 's time fo' to run. 



178 



A COMING "LITERARY" SUCCESS 

T 'M going to write a novel that will sell so ripping 

fast 
That folks will come in crowds and fight for copies 

while they last. 
In fact, before it 's printed I must sell it by the 

ton, 
So when it does appear I '11 have the people on the 

run. 

I Ve got my testimonials for street-car ads. all 

signed : 
Charles Dickens writes me one which says : " In 

this new book I find 
That, while I used to think that I could tell a tale, 

I see 
The author of this volume knocks the spots clean 

off of me." 

Another, penned by Walter Scott, says : " This 

book is immense ! 
It makes my poor old novels look about like thirty 

cents." 

179 



A Coming ** Literary " Success 

And these strong words from Thackeray: "Though 

my books are n't the worst, 
I never could have pubhshed them had yours been 

issued first." 

And WilHam Shakespeare signs his name to this : 

" While I am not 
A -novelist, I think I know a well-constructed plot, 
And when your book is dramatized, as it is sure 

to be, 
Why, I can see the finish of the plays produced 

by me." 

Besides the street-car ads., we 've got red posters 

ten feet high ; 
My publishers will *' rub it in " to every seeing 

eye. 
They 're going to push with might and main each 

factor that promotes 
Tremendous sales ! The book 's to be crammed 

down the people's throats. 

And now that everything 's in shape to launch it 

with a boom, 
To-morrow I shall lock myself all day within my 

room 

i8o' 



A Coming *' Literary " Success 

And write the thing, and after that we '11 whoop 'er 

up, red hot, 
And make it go, it 's got to go, no matter if it 's 

rot! 



i8i 



HIS SECOND WIFE 

A S story-writers often say, " Once on a time 

there lived a man," 
Who got it in his head that he was built on a 

superior plan ; 
He fancied that to him belonged the best of all 

there was in life, 
And everybody bowed, to him until — he got his 
second wife, 

And then — 
Ah, then ! 
He slid down from his pedestal and she was seated 

there instead, 
And like a rooster sadly whipped, he found his 

greatness all had fled ; 
The sky that over him had smiled seemed strangely 

hidden by a cloud ; 
"I can't see why," he 'd often say, "a mortal spirit 
should be proud." 

His first wife toiled and strove for him, while he 

ruled like a petty king ; 
She 'd slave and save, and make and mend, and 

wait on him, and fetch and bring ; 
182 



His Second Wife 

But by and by she weary grew and left this sorry 

world of strife ; — 
He mourned her absence ninety days before he 

got his second wife, 

And then — 
Ah, then ! 
He learned a simple truth or two, but oh ! the 

irony of fate 
That brings us that we ought to know so well, a 

little bit too late ! 
He knew that when he should have smiled he 

often gave a chilling frown. 
And did not prize the golden light until, alas ! the 

sun went down. 

How often did he say that when his days on earth 

had all been spent 
Whatever wealth he left should then be used to 

build his monument. 
That was before his first wife died, but when his 

final summons came, 
He left his second wife a will and everything was 
in her name. 

And then — 
Ah, then ! 
^^3 



His Second Wife 

She put him in a plain pine box, and buried him 

where land was cheap, 
And she 'd so much to think about, she really 

had n't time to weep. 
She took a trip to Europe with the wealth his first 

wife toiled to save, 
And all the widow's weeds there were grew six 

feet high above his grave. 



184 



UNCLE PHIL'S PHILOSOPHY 

T B'LIEVE most everybody 'd like to make the 
hull world glad ; 

There 's very few, so I contend, that 's bent on 
bein' bad, 

But oh ! so many things occur to switch 'em off 
the track, 

An' some folks, when they once git off, they some- 
how don't git back. 

The heroes in life's battle are the brave, deter- 
mined men 

Who, if they stub their toe an' fall, '11 git right up 
again ; 

An* so, amid Hfe's many cares, the one successful 
plan 

Is jest to keep on doin' things the very best we 
can. 

There 's days when life 's as smooth as oil an' all 

the world 's a joy, 
With lots to bring us pleasure an' with nothin' to 

annoy ; 
But 'bout the time we tell ourselves good luck has 

come to stay. 



Uncle Phil's Philosophy 

Why, everything gits all upset an' scattered every 

way. 
But, when we find we 're shipwrecked, then we 

ought to do our best 
An' try to save out all we can from sinkin' with 

the rest ; 
Fer, come what will o* good er ill, the victor is the 

man 
Who jest keeps on a-doin' things the very best he 

can. 

O* course, we 'd like to do a lot to elevate the race ; 
But, after all, right now an' here is jest the time 

an' place 
To start in on our mission, fer there 's always 

some one near 
That 's yearnin' fer a pleasant smile er jest a word 

o* cheer. 
So let 's quit dreamin' what we 'd do if things was 

thus an' so, 
An' make the most of all the gifts kind fortune 

may bestow. 
We '11 do as all wise folks have done since first the 

world began. 
An' when we can 't do jest the best, do jest the 

best we can. 

i86 



NED'S LETTER TO SANTA CLAUS 

"T^EAR Santa Claus : I write you this so you 

will know just what 
To give to me when Christmas comes. I want a 

quite a lot 
Of things if I can get them. First of all I want a 

sled 
To outrun Tommy Jones's, and I want it painted 

red. 

I hope you '11 bring a drum for me that folks can 

hear a mile ! 
Bob Smith got one last Christmas and has put on 

lots of style 
A-marching up and down the street. But, say ! 

I hope there is 
Some kind that you can bring me that 's a whole 

lot louder 'n his. 

And there 's another thing I want and that 's a pair 

of skates ; 
And please be sure that they *re the kind that cut 

the figure eights 

187 



Ned's Letter to Santa Claus 

Like Charley Tucker's do, and yet, I 'd rather you 'd 

have mine 
A little better 'n his so I can cut a figure nine. 

I want some toys and picture-books and games of 
every kind ; 

My Uncle Henry says they 're good for my ex- 
panding mind. 

If there are any other things that I 've forgot to 
name, 

I hope, my dear, good Santa Claus, you *11 bring 
them just the same. 

Mamma says that at Christmas-time love ought to 

fill each breast 
And all we wish ourselves we ought to wish for all 

the rest ; 
So when you bring me lots and lots of candy sweet 

and fine. 
Please bring some more for sister Kate so she 

won't tease for mine. 



i88 



NEIGHBOR JONES'S NOTION 

A N' so she slept, while the neighbors came 
To the darkened house that day ; 
With weepin' hearts they breathed her name 

In the kindest sort o' way. 
An' never a one but through her tears 

Spoke some sweet, lovin' word 
She had carefully kept unsaid fer years ; 
But the corpse — it never heard. 

An* they brought her flowers rich an' rare, 

Jest full o' sweet perfume. 
An' wreaths o' roses everywhere 

Made glad the darkened room. 
I thought of her life in sorrow hid, 

An' the world o' joy if she 
Could 'a' owned them wreaths on her coffin-lid ; 

But the corpse — it could n't see. 

An' here 's a word fer neighbors dear, 
Who would praise me gone, no doubt : 

If you have joys to see an' hear 
Why don't you fetch 'em out ? 
189 



Neighbor Jones's Notion 

All these post-mortem carry in 's on 

Are proper-like an' nice, 
But with the one that 's dead an' gone 

They don't cut any ice. 



190 



THE FOURTH IN EASYVILLE 

T^OURTH o' July in Easyville's a purty big 

affair, 
The town is jest a-boomin' an* they 's folks from 

everywhere. 
An' down at Hoover's blacksmith shop, afore the 

break o' day, 
The anvil 's filled with powder, an' they let *er 

blaze away. 

They ain't no sleepin' after that, er, anyway, fer 
me, 

I 'm up an' dressed an' takin' part in all the jam- 
boree ; 

Fer though I 'm gittin' on in years, I 'm jest as 
fond o' noise, 

An' when the Fourth is here, you bet I 'm trainin' 
with the boys. 

I 've got an army musket that 's so mighty loud, 

by jing, 
I 'm allers sort o' half afraid to fire the blamed old 

thing. 

191 



The Fourth in Easyville 

I carried her through the four years' war, an' that 

is why, I 'low. 
There 's somethin' in that bark o' hers that 's kind 

o' soothin' now. 

By ten o'clock the show begins ; there 's music in 

the air ; 
The town 's chock full o' people ; teams hitched 

clear around the square. 
Our band o' six brass horns, besides a bass an' 

tenor drum. 
They tune up in the band-stand, an' you bet they 

make things hum. 

An' then the " Horribles " parade, an', say, it 's 
my idee 

That there 's a gorgeous spectacle worth goin' 
miles to see. 

Of all the blamed outlandish things there is be- 
neath the sky, 

You 're mighty sure to see 'em when them " Hor- 
ribles " go by. 

Some extry fine picked voices from the village 

choir sing 
" My Country, 'T is o' Thee," you know, an' all 

that sort o' thing ; 

192 



The Fourth in Easyville 

All' then Cy Jones, as he has done fer more 

than thirty year, 
He reads the Declaration in a voice serene an' 

clear. 

The band plays " Hail Columby," an' we have 

another song. 
An' then there comes the speeches, eloquent, 

o' course, but long; 
An' that 's the way the eagle screams from early 

mornin' till 
The peaceful s.tars is shinin' on the ca'm of 

Easyville. 

I go to church o' Sundays, an' I jine in with 

the rest. 
An' sing them good old tunes about the mansions 

o' the blest ; 
But where it says that every day '11 be Sunday, 

by an' by, 
I 've wondered how we '11 do without the Fourth 

day o' July. 



193 



FARMER BROADACRE'S CHRISTMAS 

" /CHRISTMAS comes but once a year." Well, 

gosh all hemlock ! who 
That has the Christmas bills to pay would ever 

ask f er two 
Er three er four, er any more than what we^ have 

to-day ? 
There may be some, but say, by gum ! I ain't 

built jest that way. 

A sled '11 be the thing fer Ned, an' a pretty doll 
fer Nan, 

An' books an' toys an' lots o' joys fer little crip- 
pled Dan, 

Fer he can't go about, you know, like other boys, 
an' run. 

An' so that 's why we all must try to help him 
have his fun. 

An' Liza — how these girls come up ! — she don't 

want dolls no more ; 
She 's got a beau — it can't be so ! — a-clerkin' 

in a store. 

194 



Farmer Broadacre's Christmas 

But, after all, she 's 'bout as tall as was her mother 

when 
I, blushin', bought the ring that 's brought so 

much o' joy since then. 

An' so a year that could n't bring a Christmas, 

seems to me, 
Would be about the saddest thing a mortal man 

could see, 
Fer who would miss the Christmas bliss, because 

there 's bills to pay ? 
There may be some, but say, by gum ! I ain't 

built jest that way. 



195 



A CINCH ON SUCCESS 

TVyTY child, would you achieve success and stand 

among the great ? 
Well, I will tell you how to get a Fortune while 

you wait ! 
First, you must read the papers which espouse 

that sort of thing ; 
Subscribe at once for Hustle ! Snap ! Push ! 

Grab! Shove! Biff! Bang! Bing ! 
When you have reached five years of age learn 

Latin, French, and Greek ; 
Sell papers night and morning and make sixteen 

cents a week ; 
Invest it in some Railroad Bonds, as every smart 

boy does ; 
And night and day don't stop to play, but keep 

things on the Buzz. 

While running errands read some book that treats 

of this or that 
"Sure Road to Wealth"; paste lots of Business 

maxims in your hat ; 
196 



A Cinch on Success 

Have hanging up in front of you to Study While 

You Eat 
Professor Gradgrind's rules on " How to Get There 

with Both Feet ! " 
A cyclopaedia by your bed should always find a 

place 
So when you Lie Awake at Night, as sometimes is 

the case, 
You can Improve Your Mind with draughts of 

learning, long and deep. 
But don't read trashy story-books nor anything 

that 's cheap. 

In childhood learn to fix your eye upon The Real 
Main Chance, 

Do naught unless It Pays, and try to Get It in 
Advance. 

In all that may confront you let your " Business 
Motto " be 

To ask yourself the question, " What is There in 
This for Me ? " 

Regard that day as worse than lost that sees not 
Some Amount, 

However meagre, added to your Savings Bank Ac- 
count. 

197 



A Cinch on Success 

Don't pay too much attention to your conscience 

or your heart, 
But get A Lot of Money and the world will think 

you Smart. 

So mind these rules and you '11 outstrip the foolish 

little boys 
Who love to run and laugh and play amid their 

childish joys ; 
Their golden hours will all be filled with many a 

childish prank, 
While you '11 be putting, day by day, Good Money 

in the Bank ! 
The while they read their Fairy Tales you '11 

gather Vital Facts, 
And cram your head with Business till your little 

noggin cracks. 
But when they 're poor and living on a farm or in 

a flat, 
You '11 own a House, a Bob-Tailed Horse, a Cart, 

and High Silk Hat ! 



198 



THE STEADY WORKER 

TTT'HENE'ER the sun was shining out, Squire 

Pettigrew would say, 
" Now, hurrah, boys ! it 's just the time to be 

a-making hay. 
Because, you see, the sun 's so hot 't will cure it 
right away ! " 
Then all the mowers kept right on a-mowing. 
But when a cloud obscured the sun Squire Petti- 
grew would shout, 
" Oh, now 's the time for working while the sun is 

blotted out, 
A cooling cloud like that will make our muscles 
twice as stout ! " 
And that 's the way he kept his men a-going. 

Hence, little did it matter were the weather wet 

or dry, — 
If sunshine filled the valleys or if clouds o'er- 

spread the sky. 
He 'd always think of something which he deemed 
a reason why 
'T was just the time for him to keep a- working. 

199 



The Steady Worker 

But, now and then, or so it seemed, the reasons he 

would seek 
For working on, were quite far-fetched and faulty, 

so to speak, 
But, oh, they were not half so thin as are the 

many weak 
Excuses lazy people find for shirking. 



200 



THE CLOTHES MAKE THE WOMAN 

TT is simply a matter of dress, I say, 

And the feminine half of the race, to-day, 
Might hold, in our history, just as great 
A place as the lords of high estate. 
Had they been permitted to wear the clothes 
And follow the selfsame styles of those 
Who, having been born of the opposite sex, 
Had never a worry their minds to vex. 

Had Columbus and all of his valiant crew 
Worn hats that the ladies of our times do, 
They would n't have sailed in those damp, old 

ships, 
'T would have taken the curl from their ostrich 

tips. 
And I 'm more than delighted brave Paul Revere 
Did n't say on that night when the foe drew near, 
'^ I 'd like to go warn all the folks, I declare. 
But I have n't a thing that is fit to wear ! " 

Had Wellington dared but five minutes to wait, 
In trying to fasten his hat on straight 
(While Napoleon's hurrying forces came), 

201 



The Clothes Make the Woman 

He would n't have climbed to the heights of 

fame. 
And had Washington lingered to " frizzle " his 

hair, 
The night that he ferried the Delaware, 
He could n't have gotten his army away, 
Till the British had gobbled them up next day. 

And so, I say, in the race of life. 

The woman has more than her share of strife, 

And man would find 't would be hard to gain 

The prize if he had to manage a train, 

A shopping bag and a parasol, 

And high-heeled shoes a size too small — 

Ah me, oh my ! Why, he 'd have a fit, 

And he 'd never, no, never I come out of it. 



202 



HER NUMBER TWO 

TTER number two ! Oh, favored eyes 
Are those which scan its dainty size ! 
A tiny, fairy-fashioned thing, 
With Hnes so gently tapering ; 

Its grace I love to eulogize. 

Naught save possession satisfies ; 
Once seen, I labored to devise 

Plans that for aye to me would bring 
Her number two. 

I sang her praises to the skies 
And waited for her glad replies. 

Alas ! she spurned my proffered ring — 
She wore another's — cruel sting ! 
I found I was — false hope that lies — 
Her number two. 



203 



MY NEIGHBOR'S DOG 

\ LITTLE, yellow dog is owned across the 

street from me ; 
He barks and dar^s at everything that he can 

hear or see ; 
And when, alas ! there 's not a thing for him to 

see or hear, 
He then resumes his happy task of barking by 
the year. 

At night he 's barking at the moon, at Jupiter and 

Mars, 
And singly and collectively he barks at all the 

stars ; 
And if there comes a moment when I cease to 

hear his roar, 
I lie awake and wonder why he does n't bark some 

more. 

He thinks he guards the neighborhood from harm 

by day and night, * 

And so I love that little dog. He tJiinks he 's 

doing right I 
And to his simple life I trust no sorrow may befall. 
For with his bark forever hushed I could n't sleep 

at all. 

204 



. WHEN SHE 'S AWAY 

TT /"HEN the good wife 's away for a visit, 

And stayeth a week or two, 
Pray tell me, kind people, what is it 

That maketh the home so blue ? 
There are ghosts from one end to the other, 

In parlor and chamber and hall ; 
Oh, tell me, why is it, my brother. 

That gloom overspreadeth it all ? 

" She 's gone ! " How the doors loudly squeak it ; 

" She 's gone ! " saith the key in the lock ; 
" She 's gone ! " all the stairs fairly shriek it ; 

" She 's gone ! " sadly ticketh the clock. 
The plants in the window turn yellow, 

Their souls seem to sigh through the room, 
And home that was sunny and mellow, 

Becometh a cavern of gloom. 

Do you know, I Ve a notion that heaven 

Would truly be sorriest hell 
With never a woman to leaven 

The place with her magical spell. 

205 



When She 's Away 

And I 'm sure I '11 be awfully dreary 
Up there in those mansions above 

Unless they 're made gracious and cheery 
With smiles of the woman I love. 



206 



MANY AND MANY A TIME 

TV/TANY and many a time I held 

Her hand so soft and small and white ; 
My breast with joyous rapture swelled, 

My brain was drunken with delight : 
I vowed if she would wear my ring 

Her life would be a perfect rhyme ; 
I called her "angel," *'bird of spring," 
"My star," and all that sort of thing 

Many and many a time. 

Many and many a time since then. 

When erstwhile sunny skies were hid, 
I 've wondered how it was and when 

We ever thought the things we did. 
And one rash day I breathed the name 

Of one I loved in life's glad prime ; 
" Would I had wed her ere you came," 
I said. Said she, " I 've wished the same 

Many and many a time." 



207 



ONLY A WORD 

npELL me something that will be 

Joy through all the years to me. 
Let my heart forever hold 
One divinest grain of gold. 
Just a simple little word 
Yet the dearest ever heard ; 
Something that will bring me rest 
When the world seems all distressed. 

As the candle in the night 
Sends abroad its cheerful light, 
So a little word may be 
Like a lighthouse in the sea. 
When the winds and waves of life 
Fill the breast with storm and strife, 
Just one star my boat may guide 
To the harbor, glorified. 



208 



PRINTED AT THE COLONIAL PRESS IN 
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, BY C. H. SIMONDS 
& CO., FOR FORBES AND COMPANY, PUB- 
LISHERS, BOSTON AND CHICAGO. MDCCCCII 



Now m Third Edition 

"A BOOK OF VERSES" 

By NIXON WATERMAN 

A highly pleasing collection of charming, melodi- 
ous verses. There are poems of thought, of fancy, 
of incident, and of sparkling humor ; some of the 
most enjoyable are of childhood days. All are emi- 
nently readable, and are equally adapted for read- 
ing in the parlor circle or on the public platform. 
None of the poems in the book are duplicated in 
" In Merry Mood." 

They are the sort of poems the average busy person will 
§ enjoy. — Chicago Daily News. 

Genuine poems, some of them aglow with high and pure 
sentiment, and some sparkling with fetching humor. — The 
Congregationalist, Boston. 

To have such a wholesome book on hand, where the whole 
family can get at it, is a wise provision on the part of any 
home-maker. ■ — Boston Globe. 

It will be impossible for those who love verse to read " A 
Book of Verses " without enjoyment, and more than one who 
ordinarily prefers to limit himself to prose will be beguiled by 
such numbers as these of Mr. Waterman. — Chicago Tribune. 

The simple form of domestic love outlasting all the ills, 
sorrows and wrongs of a long married life was never more 
sincerely and touchingly sketched in verse. Mr. Waterman 
sings of mother and motherhood in the sweetest and most 
sympathetic tenderness. Of childhood, of youth, of love — 
his Muse plays with the young and comforts the old. — The 
Independent, New York. 

The volume is tastefully printed and bound in a beautifully 
decorated cover. Cloth, gilt top, deckle-edged, i2mo, 226 
pages. Price, $\.2<^. For sale by all booksellers or sent 
postpaid by the publishers. 

FORBES © COMPANY 

P. O. BOX 1478 

BOSTON, MASS 



p. O. BOX 464 

CHICAGO, ILL 



3. 



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